m^ 




Book 



sie 



THE 



METROPOLITAN 






THIRD READER: 

Cawfallg arrangti, in ^tast ani) J?«8t, 
FOR THE USE OF SCHOOLS. 




By A Member of the Order of THt Holy Cross, r' 
€}tm ^ttmlsm .Supjeriorum. 

NEW AND REVISED EDITION. 

\ NEW YORK: 

m & J. SADLIER & CO., 31 BARCLAY STREET. 

i MONTREAL : 

I COE. NOTRE DAMK AND ST. FRANCIS XAVIER STS. 

f, 1872. 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, 

By D. & J. SADLIER & CO., 

In the Ofllce of the Librarian of Congress at Washington, 



Elecfrotyped by VINCENT DILL, 
^6 & 27 New Chambers St.' N. Y. 






PREFACE 



THIS series originally comprised four Progressive 
Readers. A Fifth, or Oratorical Reader, was 
soon after added ; but as many teachers complained 
that the Third Reader was too far in advance of the 
Second, an Intermediate Reader has been prepared, 
and is now published, to follow after the Second. 
The Third Reader has also been carefully revised, 
and, where it was possible to do so, shorter and more 
simple words have been substituted for larger and 
more difficult ones. These changes will, it is hoped, 
make the Metropolitan series entirely complete. 

Having had some experience in the education of 
youth, and having examined most of the Readers 
published, we noticed that, with the single exception 
of the Christian Brothers' series, all the others are 
better adapted for pagan than Christian schools. 
They are made expressly for mixed schools, where 
Protestant and CathoHc, Jew and pagan, may read 
out of the same book, without discovering that there 
is such a thing as religion in the world. 

Dr. Brownson, in. his Review for July, has so well 
described what Readers should and should not be, 
that we will be pardoned for quoting him, as he ex- 



6 PKEFACE. 

presses far more clearly than we can what we would 
wish to say : 

"Instructions in natural history or natural science, 
as chemistry, mineralogy, geology, quadrupeds, birds, 
fishes, or bugs, may be very interesting, but they form 
no part of education, and tend far more to materialize 
the mind than to elevate it to God, and to store it 
with moral and religious principles, which may one 
day fructify, and form a character of moral and true 
religious worth. A book may contain much useful 
instruction on nouns, adjectives, verbs, adverbs, par- 
ticiples, and other parts of speech, very proper in a 
grammar-book, but quite out of place in a reading- 
book ; but all these lessons belong to the department 
of special instruction, and either have no bearing on 
education proper, or tend to give to educa-tion a dry, 
utilitarian, and materialistic character. . . . The 
aim of the reading-book is not instructioii, save in the 
single art of reading, but education, the development 
or cultivation in the mind and in the heart of those 
great principles which are the basis of all religion." 

We have endeavored to make these Keaders as 
attractive in every way as any series published ; 
while from a Catholic point of view, we can con- 
scientiously claim for them some degi^ee of merit. 

The style in which the publishers have got up the 
other books of this series is very creditable to them ; 
but in this third book they have surpassed themselves. 
It is embellished with numerous engravings, many of 
them very fine, and far superior to what is generally 
seen in school-books. 

The Compiler. 



CONTENTS. 



PART I. 

FAGE 

Instructions on the Principles op Eeading 11 

1. Baptism 15 

2. The Smile of Innocence 18 

3. Kind Words 19 

4. The Brothers 20 

6. Beware of Impatience 21 

6. The Two Ways 23 

7. Counsel to the Young 25 

8. On a Picture of a Girl leading her Blind Mother through the 

Woods Willk. 26 

9. The Honest Shepherd Boy 28 

10. The Wonders of a Salt Mine Youth's C Magazine 82 

11. The Starry Heavens 83 

12. Carelessness 35 

13. Congregation of the Propagation of the Faith 39 

14. Live for Something 42 . 

15. Predominant Passions 43 

16. " " {Continued) 47 

17. My Boy Absalom N. P. Willis. 62 

18. The Scholar's Vision 54 

19. Birth of our Saviour Duty of a Christian. 58 

20. A Spanish Anecdote 61 

21. Anecdotes of Dogs Natural History. 62 

22. Burial of Sir John Moore Wolfe. 66 

23. I Try to be Good 68 

24. The Green Mossy Bank 70 

25. On the Baptismal Vows Duty of a Christian. 7 1 

26. The Litany 73 

27. The Sign of the Cross 74 

28. The Three Friends . .' 77 

29. Song of the Eailroad 0. W. Holmes. 78 

30. Victorinus 80 



8 CONTENTS. 

PAOB 

81. Guardian Angels 82 

32. The Eesurrection of the Body Bible History. 84 

33. A Story of a Monk 87 

34. The Dilatory Scholar 89 

35. Spanish Evening Hymn 90 

86. Christ stilling the Tempest 91 

37. Holiday Children 92 



PART II. 



1. The Dream of the Crusader 95 

2. •• •♦ '• ♦« {Continued) 97 

3. The Lord's Prayer Bible Stories. 99 

4. Legend of the Infant Jesus 101 

5. The Do-Nothings 102 

6. Healing the Daughter of Jairus Willis. 105 

7. St. Philip Neri and the Youth Br/ron. 108 

8. Confirmation. 109 

9. Birds in Summer 110 

10. The Children and the Infant Jesus 112 

11. The Grave of Father Marquette Judge Kennedy. 117 

12. Abraham and Isaac Bible History. 120 

13. Hohenlinden Campbell. 123 

14. Language of Flowers Clifton Tracts. 124 

15. Homeward Bound Willis. 127 

16. Lucy's Death Clifton Tracts. 128 

17. .Autobiography of a Rose K M. Guthrie. 132 

18. " " (Continued) " 135 

19. Winter 138 

20. The Snow 141 

21. Uses of Water 143 

Dying Christian to his Soul Pope. 145 

22. Flight into Egypt Bible Stories. 146 

23. The Freed Bird Mrs. Hemans. 148 

24. Beheading of St. John Bible Stories. 150 

25. Saturday Afternoon Willis. 152 

26. Learning and Accomplishments not inconsistent with Good 

Housekeeping 154 

27. Learning aind Accomplishments (Continued) 156 



CONTENTS. 9 

rAGB 

28. Anecdotes of the Tiger .... Katwral Etstory 159 

29. The Fountain .163 

30. Benedict Arnold 164 

31. Ruth and No^mi Bible Stories. 166 

32. Flowers 169 

33. The Scholar of the Rosary 170 

34. " " *' " (Goniinued) 172 

35. The Month of May 175 

36. The Month of Mary C. Youth's Magazine. 177 

37. The Indian 178 

88. Charity Oimpion. 180 

39. The Everlasting Church Macavlay. 181 

40. Welcome to the Rhine Eemans. 183 

41. The Bee-Hive 185 

42. The Child's Wish m June 187 

43. The Martyr's Boy Cardinal Wiseman. 188 

44. " " " {Continued) '* " 193 

45. Anna's Offering of Samuel Bible Stories. 196 

46. The Boy and the Child Jesus Heber. 199 

47. The Holy Eucharist ; .Bible Stories. 201 

48. The House of Loretto KM. Guthrie. 204 

49. Extreme Unction Duty of a Christian. 207 

50. " What is that, Mother ? " Doane. 209 

61. Charity Original. 210 

62. Anecdotes of Horses Anecdotes of Animals. 211 

63. The Battle of Blenheim Southey. 215 

64. The Annunciation Bible Stories. 217 

55. St. Felicitas and her Sons Mrs. Hope. 220 

66. Immortality 0. A. Brownson. 224 

67. The Widow of Nain Willis. 225 

68. Monument to a Mother's Grave J. R. Chandler. 227 

69. Adoration of the Shepherds Bible Stories. 230 

60. The Angelus Bell Campion. 232 

61. The Adoration of the Magi Bible Stories. 234 

62. lona 237 

63. St. Columba blessing the Isles Machay. 239 

64. The Observing Judge 241 

65. " " «' {Continued) 242 

66. " " •' {Concluded) 244 

67. Henry the Hermit Southey. 246 

68. God is Everywhere 249 

69. Anecdote of Frederick the Great 250 

70. A Small Catechism McGee. 251 



10 CONTENTS. 

71. The Prodigal Son Bible Stories. 252 

72. Blanche of Castile 255 

73. Hail Virgin of Virgins Lyra Catholica. 256 

74. Legend of Daniel the Anchoret Mrs. Jameson. 259 

75. " " (Continued) '• 261 

76. Childhood's Years Kirke While 262 

77. Breakfast-Table Science 265 

78. " " {Continued) 268 

79. " " (Concluded) 272 

80. Tired of Play Willis. 278 

81. Melrose Abbey Ordinal. 279 

82. Curing the Blind Life of Christ for Youth. 281 

83. Country Fellows and the Ass Byron. 283 

84. The First Crusade , Michaud. 285 

85. The Battle of Antioch 288 

86. Village Schoolmaster. Goldsmith 291 

87. The Rector of Guignen Bishop Bayley. 292 

88. The Three Homes 294 

89. St. Peter delivered out of Prison Youth's C. Magazine. 295 

90. The Hermit Goldsmith. 298 

91. Pope Leo the Great and Attila Bridge's Modem History. 299 

92. Childhood of Jesus Life of Christ for Youth. 301 

93. The Butterfly's Ball, etc Roscoe. 302 

94. The Ascension Bible Stories. 304 

95. The Traveller Goldsmith. 306 

96. The Moorish Wars in Spain. 307 

97. The Monks of Old .Q. P. R. James. 309 

98. The Sacred Pictures Bible Stories. 311 

99. Truth in Parentheses Hood. 312 

100. Japanese Martyrs , Games. 313 

101. Pain in a Pleasure-Boat Hood. 317 

102. Flowers for the Altar. Clifton Tracts. 320 



I have given the names of some authors ; but in arranging this Reader, 
my object was to secure pieces suitable for children who were commencing 
to read rather fluently. Many of them are fugitive. I sought rather to 
make it pleasant and instructive, than to cull from particular authors. 



THE THIRD READER. 



PART FIRST. 

IIS^STRUCTIONS 0^ THE PRINCIPLES OF READING. 



All that articulate language can effect to influence others, 
Is dependent upon the voice addressed to the ear. A skil- 
ful management of it is, consequently, of the highest import- 
ance. 

Distinct articulation forms the foundation of good reading. 
To acquire this, the voice should be frequently exercised upon 
the elementary sounds of the language, both simple and com- 
bined, and classes of words contaming sounds liable to be 
perverted or suppressed in utterance, should be forcibly and 
accurately pronounced. 





Elementaey Vocal Sounds. 








Viywd Sounds. 






a 


as in 


ape. 




as 


in old. 


a 




arm. 




* 


' do. 


a 




ball. 




' 


' ox. 


a 




mat. 




u ' 


' use. 


e 




eve. 




u ' 


' tub. 


e 




end. 




u ' 


' full. 


i 




ice. 




oi ' 


' voice. 


i 




it. 




ou * 


' sound. 



12 THE THIED READER. 



Consonant Sounds. 




b* as in bag. 


r as is 


rain. 


d " dun. 


V " 


vane. 


g " , gate. 


w ", 


war. 


J " jam. 


J " 


yes. 


1 " love. 


z '* 


zeal. 


m " moment. 


ng " 


song. 


n " not. 


th " 


there. 



s " sign. 


t " tell. 


sh " shade. 


th " thanks 



Aspirate Sounds. ' 

The aspirate consonant is distinguished from the vocal in 
its enunciation : the former is pronounced with a full emission 
of breath ; the latter, by a murmuring sound of the voice. 

Exercises in the Aspirate Consonants. 

f as in fate. h as in hate. k as in key. 

p " pin. 
ch " charm. 

Avoid the suppression of a syllable ; as, 

cab'n for cabin. des'late for desolate, 

partic'lar " particular. mem'ry " memory. 

Avoid the omission of any sound properly belonging to a 
word ; as, 

seein' for seeing. swif 'ly for swiftly, 

wa'mer " warmer. 'appy " happy, 

gover'ment " government. b'isness " buisness. 

Avoid the substitution of one sound for another ; as, 

wil-ler for wil-low. tem-per-it for tem-per-ate. 

win-der " window. com-prom-mise " com-pro-mise. 

sep-e-rate " sep-a-rate. hol-ler " hollow. 

* The common defect ijj the articulation of b, is a want of force in 
pompressing and opening the n^puth. 



ON THE PEINCIPLES OF READING. 13 



Emphasis and Accent. 

Emphasis and Accent both indicate some special stress of 
the voice. Emphasis is that stress of the voice by which one 
or more words of a sentence are distinguished above the rest. 
It is used to designate the important words of a sentence, 
without any direct reference to other words. — Example : 

Be we men, 
And suffer such dishonor ? Men, and wash not 
The stain away m blood ! 

Emphasis is also used in contrasting one word or clause 
with another ; as, 

Religion raises men above themselves. Irreligion sinks 
them beneath brutes. 

To determine the emphatic words of a sentence, the reader 
must be governed wholly by the Sentiment to be expressed. 
The idea is sometimes entertained, that emphasis is expressed 
by loudness of tone. But it should be borne in mind that the 
most intense emphasis may often be effectively expressed even 
by a whisper. 

Accent. 

Accent is that stress of voice by which one syllable of a 
word is made more prominent than the others. 

The accented syllable is sometunes designated thus (') ; as, 
in'terdict. Words of more than two syllables generally have 
two or more of them accented. The more forcible stress is 
called the primary accent, and the less forcible the secondary 
accent ; as, mul'ti pU ca"tiou, com'pre hend". 

Note. — The change of accent on the same word often 
changes its meaning ; as 

ob'ject, ultimate pm-pose. object', to oppose, 

con'duct, behavior, con duct', to lead. 



14 THE THIRD READER. 



Inflections or Modulations 

are those variations of the voice heard in speaking or reading, 
which are prompted by the feehngs and emotions that the sub- 
ject inspires. A coiTect modulation of the voice is one of the 
most important things to be taught to children. Without it 
they cannot become good readers. If the voice is kept for 
any length of time in one continuous key or pitch, the reader 
and the hearers equally become weary. Whenever a habit of 
reading or speaking in a nasal, shrill, harsh, or rough tone 
of voice is contracted by the pupil, no pains should be spared 
in eradicating it, and in securing a clear, full, round, and flex- 
ible tone. Three degrees of variations are usually recognized 
in reading — the high, middle, and low. 

The low is that which falls below the usual speaking key, 
and is employed in expressing emotions of sublimity, awe, and 
reverence. 

The middle pitch is what is usually employed in common 
conversation, and in expressing unimpassioned thought, and 
moderate emotion. 

The high pitch is that which rises above the usual speaking 
key, and is used in expressing joyous and elevated feelings. 

The great object of every reader should be, first, to read so 
as to be folly and easily understood by all who hear him ; and 
next, to read with grace and force, so as to please and move 
his hearers. 




BAPTISM. 



15 



1. Baptism. 



0-rig'i-nal, first, primitive. 
Mar'tyr-dom, death in testi- 
mony of the true faith. 



SuF-Fi'ci-ENT, enough. 
Ya-lid'i-ty, legal force. 
Reg'is-ter-ed, recorded. 




Our Saviour baptized by St. John. 



THE first of the Sacraments which we receive is baptism. 
It was instituted by our Lord to Iree us from original sin, 
and also from actual sin committed before we receive it. Bap- 
tism makes us children of God and of his holy Church ; and 



16 THE THIBD HEADER. 

it is the most necessary of all the Sacraments, because, unless 
we receive it, we cannot enter the kingdom of heaven. 

2. There are commonly reckoned three kinds of baptism : 
first, by water ; second, that of the spirit ; and third, of blood. 
The first only is properly a sacrament, and it is conferred 
by pouring water on the head of the person to be baptized, 
repeating at the same time these words : ''I baptize thee in 
the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy 
Ghost." 

3. The baptism of the spirit takes place when a person has 
a true sorrow for his sins, and an ardent desire to receive bap- 
tism, but is placed in such a position that it is impossible for 
him to receive the sacrament. By this desire original and 
actual sin is forgiven. The baptism of blood is that which 
takes place when a person suffers martyrdom for the faith. 
Hence the Holy Innocents, put to death by the order of 
Herod, when that wicked king sought to kill our Lord, are 
esteemed as martyrs, and as beuig baptized in their blood. 

4. At what particular time during the Kfe of our divine 
Lord baptism was instituted is not exactly known. Some 
holy Fathers think it was instituted when Christ was baptized 
by St. John ; others, when He said, unless a man be bom of 
water and the Holy Ghost, he cannot enter the kingdom of 
heaven. It is certain, however, that the obUgation began 
with the beginning of Christianity. 

5. Baptism is conferred in three ways. First, by immer- 
sion, that is, by plunging the person under the water. Sec- 
ondly, by infusion, or pouring the water on the person to be 
baptized ; and thu-dly, by aspersion or sprinkhng. The prac- 
tice now is, to pour the water three times on the person about 
to be baptized, usuag the words, "I baptize thee, &c.," which 
we mentioned before. The pouring of the water once is suffi- 
cient, as to making the sacrament valid ; and it is not actually , 
necessary to make the sign of the cross while pouring the 
water, though it is usually done. 

6. The ceremonies made use of in conferring the sacra- 
ment of baptism are impressive and instructive. The priest 
breathes upon the infant or other person to be baptized, to 



BAPTISM. 17 

signify spiritual life. It is used also to drive away the devil, 
by the Holy Ghost, who is called the Spirit of God. The 
person is signed with the sign of the cross, to signify that he 
is made a soldier of Christ. Salt is put into his mouth, which 
is an emblem of prudence, and signifies that grace is given to 
preserve the soul incorrupt. 

7. The priest applies spittle to the person's ears and nostrils, 
in imitation of Christ, who used that ceremony in curing the 
deaf and dumb. The anointing the head denotes the dignity 
of Christianity ; the anointing the shoulders, that he may be 
strengthened to carry his cross ; the breast, that his heart 
may concur willingly in all the duties of a Christian ; the 
white garment in which the person is clothed signifies inno- 
cence ; and the lighted candle the light of faith with which he 
is endowed. 

8. When children are baptized, they have also a godfather 
and godmother, whose duty it is to instruct the child in the 
duties of its religion, in case of the death or neglect of 
parents to do it. The office of godfather or godmother is an 
important one, and should not be undertaken without due con- 
sideration of its duties. • 

9. At baptism, the devil and all his works are solemnly re- 
nounced ; a promise is recorded on the altar to bear the white 
robe of innocence without stain of sin before the throne of 
God. Children, have you kept this promise ? 




18 



THE THIRD READER. 



2. The Smile of Innocence. 



Tran'sient, passing, fleeting. 
Ma'ni-ac, a madman. 
Pen'sive, thoughtful. 
Plac'id, quiet. 
En-rol', to register. 



Me'te-or, a luminous, tran- 
sient body, floatmg in the 
atmosphere. . 

In'no-cence, freedom from 
guilt. 




1. rpHERE is a smile of bitter scorn, 

-L Which curls the lip, which lights the eye ; 
There is a smile in beauty's morn 
Just rising o'er the midnight sky. 

2. There is a smile of youthful joy, 

When hope's bright star's the transient guest 
There is a smile of placid age. 
Like sunset on the billow's breast. 



3. There is a smile, the maniac's smile, 

Which lights the void that reason leaves, 
And, like the sunshine through a cloud, 
Throws shadows o'er the sons: she weaves. 



KIND WOEDS. 



19 



4. There is a smile of love, of hope, 

Which shines a meteor through life's gloom ; 
And there's a smile, Religion's smile. 
Which lights the weary to the tomb. 

5. It is the smile of innocence, 

Of sleeping infancy's hght dream ; 
Like lightning on a summer's eve, 
It sheds a soft, a pensive gleam. 

6. It dances round the dimpled cheek, 

And tells of happiness within ; 

It smiles what it can never speak — 

A human heart devoid of sin. 



3. Kind Words. 

Men'tal, relating to the mind. I Wrath'ful, furious, raging. 
Mo-rose', sour of temper. I Un-pleas'ant, offensive. 

Do nat say ment'l for mental ; 'complish or uccomplish for accomplish 
russolve for resolve ; perduce for produce. 




rpHEY never blister the tongue or lips. And we have never 
-*- heard of one mental trouble arising from this quarter. 
Though they do not cost much, yet they accomplish much. 



20 THE THIKD READER. 

They help one's own good-nature and good-will. Soft words 
soften our own souls. Angry words are fuel to the flame of 
wrath, and make the blaze more fierce. 

2. Kind words make other people good-natured. Cold 
words freeze people, and hot words make them hot, and bitter 
words make them bitter, and wrathful words make them 
wrathful. There is such a rush of all other kinds of words in 
our days, that it seems unpleasant to give kind words a chance 
among them. 

3. There are Tain words, and idle words, and hasty words, 
spiteful words, and empty words, and profane words, and war- 
like words. Kind words also produce their own image in 
man's soul. And a beautiful image it is. 

4. They soothe, and quiet, and comfort the hearer. Ttiey 
shame him out of his sour, morose, unkind feelings. If we 
have not yet begun to use kind words in abundance as the^ 
ought to be used, we should resolve to do so immediately. 



4. The Brothers. 
Sa'cred, holy. TJn-troub'led, not troubled. 

Sound e correctly. Do not say sacrud for sacred; ware for were. 
Avoid a singing tone in reading poetry. 



^¥ 



E ARE BUT TWO — the others sleep 
Through death's untroubled night 
We are but two — oh, let us keep ^ 
The link that binds us bright. 



2. Heart leaps to heart — the sacred flood 
That warms us is the same ; 
That good old man — ^his honest blood 
Alike we fondly claim. 



BEWARE OF IMPATIENCE. 



21 



We in one mother's arms were lock'd — 

Long be her love repaid ; 
In the same cradle we were rock'd, 

Round the same hearth we played. 




4. Our boyish sports were all the same, 
Each Uttle joy and woe : 
Let manhood keep ahve the flame, 
Lit up so long ago. 

6. We are but two — ^be that the band 
To hold us till we die ; 
Shoulder to shoulder let us stand, 
Till side by side we he. 



5. Bewaee of Impatience. 



De-li'cious, excellent to the 

taste. 
Mis'e-ey, wretchedness ; woe. 
Anx'ious, with trouble of 

mind. 
Im-port'ance, consequence. 



Ad-vis] 

vice. 
Plunged, thrust in. 
Be-ware', to take care. 
Poi'soN, what is noxious to Ufe 

or health. 



22 THE THIRD REABEK. 




THERE'S many a pleasure in life which we might possess, 
were it not for our impatience. Young people, especially, 
miss a great deal of happiness, because they cannot wait till 
the proper time. 

2. A man once gave a fine pear to his little boy, saying to 
him, "The pear is green now, my boy, but lay it by for a week, 
and it will then be ripe, and very delicious." 

"But," said the child, "I want to eat it now, father." 
" I tell you it is not ripe yet," said the father. " It will 
not taste good ; and, besides, it will make you sick." 

3. " No, it won't, father ; I know it won't, it looks so good. 
Do let me eat it 1 " 

After a little more teasing, the father consented, and the 
child ate the pear. The consequence was, that the next day 
he was taken sick, and came very near dying. Now, all this 
happened because the child was impatient. 

4. He could not wait, and so, you see, the pear, that might 
have been very pleasant and harmless, was the occasion of 
severe illness. Thus it is that impatience, in a thousand in- 
stances, leads children, and pretty old ones too, to convert 
sources of happiness into actual mischief and misery. 

5. There were some boys once, who hved near a pond ; and 
when winter came, they were very anxious to have it freeze 
over, so that they could slide and skate upon the ice. At 
last, there came a very cold night, and in the morning the 



THE TWO WAYS. 



23 



boys went to the pond to see if the ice would bear them. 
Their father came by at that moment, and seeing that it was 
hardly thick enough, told the boys that it was not safe yet, 
and advised them to wait another day before they ventured 
upon it. 

6. But the boys were in a great hurry to enjoy the pleasure 
of sliding and skating. So they walked out upon the ice ; but 
pretty soon it went crack — crack — crack 1 and down they 
were all plunged into the water ! It was not very deep, so 
they got out, though they were very wet, and came near 
drowning ; and all because they could not wait. 

t. Now these things, though they may seem to be trifles, 
are full of instruction. They teach us to beware of impatience, 
to wait till the fruit is ripe ; they teach us that the cup of 
pleasure, seized before the proper time, is turned into poison. 
They show us the importance of patience. 



6. The Two Ways. 



Ehine, the principal river in 

Germany. 
Con'science, internal or self- 
knowledge. 
Calm'ness, quietness. 
Mourned, sorrowed. 



Raven, a species of black 

bird. 
Rust'ling, slight noise. 
Mis'e-ry, wretchedness. 
Par'a-ble, 

tude. 



a fable ; a simili- 



IN a village on the Rhine, a schoolmaster was one day 
teaching in his school, and the sons and daughters of the 
villagers sat around listening with pleasure, for his teaching 
was full of interest. He was speaking of the good and bad 
conscience, and of the still voice of the heart. 

2. After he had finished speaking, he asked his pupils : 
''Who among you is able to tell me a parable on this sub- 
ject?" One of the boys stood forth and said, "I think I can- 
tell a parable, but I do not know whether it be right." 

"Speak in your own words," answered the master. And 
the boy began: "I compare the calmness of a good con- 



i 



24 THE THIRD READER. 

science and the unhappiness of an evil one, to two ways on 
which I walked once. 

3. "When the enemy passed through our village, the soldiers 
carried off by force my dear father and our horse. When my 
father did not come back, my mother and all of us wept and 
mourned bitterly, and she sent me to the town to inquire for 
my father. I went ; but late at night I came back sorrow- 
fully, for I had not found my father. It was a dark night in 
autumn. 

4. "The wind roared and howled in the oaks and firs, and 
between the rocks ; the night-ravens and owls were shrieking 
and hooting ; and I thought in my soul how we had lost my 
father, and of the misery of my mother when she should see 
me return alone. A strange trembling seized me in the dreary 
night, and each rusthng leaf terrified me. Then I thought to 
myself, — such must be the feehngs of a man's heart who has 
a bad conscience." 

5. " My children," said the master, "would you like to walk 
in the darkness of night, seeking in vain for your dear father, 
and hearing naught but the roar of the storm, and the screams 
of the beasts of prey ? " 

6. " Oh 1 no," exclaimed all the children, shuddering. 
Then the boy resumed his tale and said, " Another time I 

went the same way with my sister ; we had been fetching 
many nice things from town for a feast, which our father was 
secretly preparing for our mother, to surprise her the next 
day. 

1. "It was late when we returned ; but it was in spring ; 
the sky was bright and clear, and all was so calm, that we 
could hear the gentle murmur of the rivulet by the way, and 
on all sides the nightingales were singing. I was walking 
hand in hand with my sister ; but we were so delighted that 
we hardly liked to speak ; then our good father came to meet 
us. Now I thought again by myself, — such must be the state 
of the man who has done much good." 

8. When the boy had finished his tale, the master looked 
kindly at the children, and they all said together, "Yes, we 
will become good men ! " 



COUNSEL TO THE YOUNG. 



25 



7. Counsel to the Young. 



Web, network. 
Trou'ble, care. 
Cheer'ful, pleasant. 
Has'ty, impetuous ; with ea- 
gerness. 
Mourn, to grieve. 



Bub'ble, a small bladder of 
water. 

Tri'fle, a matter of no im- 
portance. 

Re-venge', returning evil for 
evil. 




IVFEYER be cast down by trifles. If a spider breaks his 
-L^ web twenty times, twenty times will he mend it. Make 
up your minds to do a thing, and you will do it. Fear not if 
trouble comes upon you; keep up your spirits, though the 
day may be a dark one — 

Troubles do not last forever, 
The darkest day will pass away. 

2. If the sun is going down, look up to the stars ; if the 
earth is dark, keep your eyes on heaven. With God's pres- 
ence and God's promise, a man or child may be cheerful. 

Never despair when fog's in the air, 
A sunshiny morning will come without warning. 
2 



26 THE THIED READER. 

3. Mind what yon run after ! Never be content with a 
bubble that will burst ; or a fire that will end in smoke and 
darkness : but that which you can keep, and which is worth 
keeping. 

Something sterling that will stay, 
When gold and silver fly away. 

4. Fight hard against a hasty temper. Anger will come, 
but resist it strongly. A spark may set a house on fire. A 
fit of passion may give you cause to mourn all the days of 
your life. Never revenge an injury. 

He that revenges knows no rest ; 
The -meek possess a peaceful breast. 

5. If you have an enemy, act kindly to him, and make him 
your friend. You may not win him over at once, but try 
again. Let one kindness be followed by another till you have 
compassed your end. By little and httle great things are 
completed- 

Water falling day by day, 
Wears the hardest rock away. 

And so repeated kindness will soften a heart of stone. 



8. On a Picture of a Girl leading her Blind 
Mother through the Wood. 

1. npHE green leaves as we pass 

-A- Lay their light fingers on thee unaware, 
And by thy side the hazels cluster fair, 

And the low forest-grass 
Grows green and silken where the wood-paths wind — 
Alas I for thee, sweet mother 1 thou art bhnd I 

2. And nature is all bright ; 

And the faint gray and crimson of the dawn, 
Like folded curtains from the day are drawn ; 
And evening's purple light 



GIEL LEADING HER BLIND MOTHER. 

Quivers in tremulous softness on the sky — 
Alas ! sweet mother ! for thy clouded eye. 



27 




3. The moon's new silver shell 

Trembles above thee, and the stars float up, 
In the blue air, and the rich tulip's cup 

Is pencil'd passing well. 
And the swift birds on glorious pinions flee — 
Alas ! sweet mother ! that thou canst not see I 



4. And the kind looks of Mends 
Peruse the sad expression in thy face. 
And the child stops amid his bounding race, 
And the tall stripling bends 



THE THIRD EEADER, 

Low to thine ear with duty nnforgot — 

Alas ! sweet mother ! that thou seest them not I 

5. But thou canst hear ! and love 
May richly on a human tone be pour'd, 
And the least cadence of a whisper'd word 

A daughter's love may prove — 
And while I speak thou knowest if I smile, 
Albeit thou canst not see my face the while I 

6. Yes, thou canst hear I and He 

Who on thy sightless eye its darkness hung, 
To the attentive ear, like harjDS, hath strung 

Heaven and earth and sea ! 
And 'tis a lesson in our hearts to know — 
With hut one sense the soul may overflow. 



9. The Honest Shepheed Boy. 



Shep'herd, one who has the 

care of sheep. 
Fru'gal, saving of expenses. 
Crook, bend, a shepherd's staff. 
Gait, manner of walking. 



Jour-ney's end, place to be 
reached. 

De-pict'ed, portrayed. 

Ca-pac'i-ty, the power of re- 
ceiving and containing. 



I AM going to tell you something which happened in Eng* 
land. It is about a shepherd boy, named John Borrow. 
It was a cold, wintry morning when John left his home, as 
usual, to tend the sheep of farmer Jones. In one hand John 
carried his frugal meal, and in the other he held a shepherd's 
crook. He walked briskly along, whistling as he went — now 
tossing with his feet the stUl untrodden snow, and, once in a 
while, running back to slide where his own feet had made a 
way. Had you looked into the bright, sunny face of John 
Borrow, you would not have been surprised at his cheerful 



THE HONEST SHEPHERD BOY. 29 

gait. His countenance bore the impress of a happy disposi- 
tion, and a warm, confiding heart. 

2. John had been carefully brought up by his only surviv- 
ing parent — a poor mother ; he was her only son, and though 
she had many httle daughters to share her maternal care, still 
she seemed to think that her first-born, the one who was to 
be the stay and support of the family, needed the most of her 
watchful love. 

3. Hitherto John had not disappomted her — he was beloved 
by aU for his open, frank manners, and his generous, honest 
heart ; and he promised fan* to IJecome all that his mother 
had so earnestly prayed he might be. 




4. But while I have been telling you a little about our young 
friend, he, in spite of his playing a little by the way, has 
reached his journey's end. He first deposits his dinner in the 
trunk of an old oak, which always serves him for a closet ; 
and then he begins to feed the poor sheep, who do not seem to 
enjoy the cold weather so much as himself. 

5. John manages to spend a very happy day alone in the 
meadows with his sheep and his dog. Sometimes he tries how 
Pepper hkes snow-balling ; sometimes he runs up to the wind- 
mill, not far off, to see if he can get any other little boys to 
come and play with him. Tliis morning, however, he had a 
little more business to do than usual ; he had to take the sheep 
to another fold, where they would be more sheltered from the 



30 THE THIRD READER. 

wind. And just as be is in the act of driving them through 
the large field-gate, he sees farmer Jones coming towards him. 

6. "John," exclaimed the farmer, as he came up to the 
other side of the gate, ''have you seen my pocket-book about 
anywhere ? I was round here about half an hour ago, and 
must have dropped it," 

"No, sir; I have not seen any thing of it, but I'll look 
about, if you like." 

7. " That's a man, John. Be quick, for it's got money in 
it, and I don't at all wish to lose it. We will hunt together." 

Whereupon they parted company, one going one way, and 
the other another, with their eyes on the ground, searchmg for 
the missing treasure. 

Presently John heard Mr. Jones calling him in a loud voice 
from the other side of the field. 

8. John, thinking the book was-jfound, came running with 
great eagerness ; but, as he drew near the old oak where farmer 
Jones stood, he was taken somewhat aback to see the look of 
anger depicted on his master's face ; and still more was he 
surprised when he saw the missing book lying open by the 
side of his own dinner, and Mr. Jones pointing to it. 

"Well, sir, what does this mean?" exclaimed the indignant 
farmer. " I thought you told me you did not know where it 
was?" 

9. John, whose amazement at the strange circumstance was 
very great, and whose sense of honor was no less so, felt the 
color mount to his cheeks, as he replied : 

" Yes, sir, and I spoke the truth." 

" Then, how do you account for my finding it open in the 
trunk of an oak, close to your dinner ? " 

" That I cannot say ; this, only, I know : that I did not put 
it there." 

10. But Mr. Jones would not be convinced — the fact seemed 
to him so clear and so self-evident ; for John acknowledged he 
had not seen any one else about there that morning ; so, after 
scolding the poor boy very severely, he dismissed him on the 
spot from his employment. 

11. It is easier to imagine than describe the feelings of poor 



THE HONEST SHEPHERD BOY. 31 

John, as he slowly found his way home that evening. To be 
deprived of the means of assisting his dear mother was bad 
enough ; but to be suspected of lying and stealing, was, to 
simple, honest John, almost too hard to bear. He consoled 
himself, however, with the thought — "Mother will believe 
me." 

12. Yes, and his mother did believe him, and told him not 
to feel angry with farmer Jones, for appearances were certainly 
against him, and he did not know him as well as she did. 
"Besides," she added, "truth must come out some time or 
other." 

And so it did, though it was months afterwards ; and I will 
tell you how. 

13. John had long been seeking another situation, but no 
one would take him, on account of the apparent blot on his 
character. This cost John many a tear and many a sigh, but 
he trusted that God would right him, and he was not discour- 
aged. 

14. One day he went to see a gentleman who had inquired 
for a lad to work in his garden. As usual, John told his story 
just as it was, and his face brightened as the gentleman said, 
" Then that must have been your dog I saw with a book in 
his mouth. I was riding through the field you mention, one 
day, some months since, and I saw a dog with a book in his 
mouth, run and put his head in the trunk of an old oak." 

15. John clapped his hands for joy, exclaiming: "I knew 
the truth would come out. Then Pepper — poor Pepper 1 it 
was his kindness to me that caused all the trouble ; he thought 
it was mine, and he took it to where I always keep my dinner, 
and then, I suppose, in dropping it into the hole, it came 
open." 

16. John lost no time in acquainting farmer Jones with 
what he had heard. He was very sorry for his suspicions, and 
wanted to take him back ; but John, who saw some chance of 
promotion in the gentleman's garden, declined the favor. 

It. John remained some time with his new master as gar- 
den-boy, but he became so great a favorite, both among the 
family and servants, that he was afterwards taken into the 



32 



THE THIED EEADEE. 



house, where he remained as the trusted and valued servant 
of his kind master, until his death. He never married — in 
order that he niight be better able to support his widowed 
mother and his four sisters. 

See, my dear children, how true it is, that all thmgs work 
together for good to those who love God. 



10. The "Wondees of a Salt Mine. 



Mine, a pit from which min- 
erals are dug. 

Ca'ble, a large, strong rope. 

Mi'ner, one who works in a 
mine. 

Cav'ern, an. opening under 
ground. 



Yault, a continued arch, a 

cellar. 
I'ci-CLES, a hanging mass of 

ice. 
In-hab'it-ant, a person who 

resides in a place. 
Com'posed, formed. 



IN a country of Europe called Poland, there is the largest 
salt mine in the world. It is quite a little town, into 
which there are eight openings, six in the fields, and two in a 
town called Cracow, near which the mine is situated. At the 
top of each of these openings is a large wheel Avith a cable, by 
which persons are let down, and sometimes as many as forty 
persons descend together. They are carried slowly down a 
narrow, dark well, to the depth of 600 feet, and as soon as 
the first person touches the ground, he steps from the rope, 
and the rest do the saine in turn. 

2. The place where they land is quite dark, but the miners 
strike a light, by means of which strangers are led through a 
number of winding ways, all sloping lower and lower, till they 
come to some ladders, by which they descend again to aA im- 
mense depth. 

3. At the bottom of the ladders the visitors enter a small, 
dark cavern, apparently walled up on- all sides. The guide 
now puts out his lamp as if by accident, and catching the vis- 
itor by the hand, drags him through a narrow cleft into the 



THE STARRY HEAVENS. 33 

body of the mine, where there bursts upon his sight a view, 
the brightness and beauty of which is scarcely to be imagined. 

4. It is a spacious plain, containing a little world under- 
ground, with horses, carriages, and roads, displaying all the 
bustle of business. This town is wholly cut out of one vast 
bed of salt, and the space is filled with lofty arched vault?, 
supported by pillars of salt, so that the building seems com- 
posed of the purest crystals. 

5. Lights are constantly burning, and the blaze of them 
reflecting from every part of the mine, gives a more splendid 
sight than any human works above gro-und could exhibit. The 
salt is, in some places, tinged with all the colors of precious 
stones, blue, yellow, purple, red, and green; and there are en- 
tire columns wholly composed of brilliant masses of such colors. 

6. From the roofs of the arches, in many parts, the salt 
hangs in the form of icicles, presenting all the colors of the 
rainbow. 

In various parts of this spacious plain stand the huts of the 
miners and their families, some single, and others in clusters 
like villages. The inhabitants have very little intercourse with 
the world above ground, and many hundreds are born and end 
their lives there. 

1. A stream of fresh water runs through the mine, so that 
the inhabitants have no occasion for a supply from above : and 
above all, the Almighty Creator of all these wonders is not 
forgotten ; they have hollowed out a beautiful chapel, in which 
the Adorable Sacrifice is offered ; the altar, crucifix, ornaments 
of the chapel, with statues of our Blessed Lady and several 
saints, are all of the same beautiful material. 



11. The Starry Heavens. 



Fir'ma-ment, the heavens. 
Pro-claim', announce. 
Plan'et, a celestial ,body re- 
volving about the sun. 
Ra'di-ant, bright. 



Ter-res'tri-al, relating to the 
earth. 

Rea'son, the faculty of judg- 
ing. 

Glo'ri-ous, illustrious. 



34 



THE THIRD READER. 




1. fTlHE spacious firmament on high, 
J- With all the blue, ethereal sky, 
And spangled heavens, a shining frame, 
Their great Original proclaim. 

2. Th' unwearied sun, from day to day, 
Does his Creator's power display, 
And publishes to every land. 

The work of an Almighty hand. 

3. Soon as the evening shades prevail, 
The moon takes up the wondrous tale, 



CARELESSNESS, 



35 



And nightly to the listening earth 
Repeats the story of her birth ; 

4. While all the stars that round her burn, 
And all the planets in their turn, 
Confirm the tidings as they roll, 

And spread the truth from pole to pole. 

5. What though in solemn silence all 
Move round this dark, terrestrial ball, — 
What though no real voice nor sound 
Amid their radiant orbs be found ? 

6. In reason's ear they all rejoice, 
And utter forth a glorious voice, 
Forever singing as they shine, 

'' The hand that made us is divine." 



12. Carelessness. 



Qual'i-ty, an attribute. 
Sloven'li-ness, untidiness 



Yield'ing, giving up. 



Frag'ment, a small portion. 
A-void'ed, shunned. 
Sur-prise', wonder suddenly 
excited. 



ARY BELL was a little girl who, though she had many 
good quahties, was also, like most persons, possessed of 
some very bad ones. One of her worst faults was her negli- 
gence and carelessness, which showed itself in many matters, 
and especially in her dress. 

2. She was affectionate, kind-hearted, and good-natured ; 
always ready to assist others, even when by so doing she 
stood in the way of her own pleasure. But, alas ! l;er sloven- 
liness, 

'' Like a cloud before the skies, 
Hid all her fetter qualities. " 



36 THE THIBD READER. 

3. This trait in Mary's character gave her mother a great 
deal of trouble. She did not want her little girl to be vain 
of dress, which is very foohsh as well as wicked, but she 
wished to see Her neat and careful. Mary sometimes suffered 
much inconvenience from her carelessness. She would often, 
when preparing for a walk or ride, waste half an hour in look- 
ing for a missing glove or stocking, and when found, the article 
was generally so much out of repair, as hardly to be worn with 
decency. 

4. But she had got the habit of throwing her things about, 
and letting them go unmended, and it seemed impossible to 
break her of it. So true it is that children should be very 
careful how they form habits that may cling to them through 
life, and, if bad, cause them much trouble. 

5. About half a mile from Mrs. Bell's there lived a very 
nice old woman, who had formerly been a housekeeper in the 
family, and who was very fond indeed of httle Mary. Mary, 
in return, loved Mrs. Brown, as the old woman was called, 
and was always delighted to be the bearer of the httle delica- 
cies which her mother often sent to her. 

6. One Saturday morning Mrs. Bell called Mary to her, 
and told her that as she had been a good gnl, and learned all 
her tasks that week very well, she might go over and spend 
the day with Mrs. Brown, adding, that when she was dressed, 
she would find a pitcher of broth on the dining-table, which 
she wished her to take with her. Mary was delighted with 
the permission, and ran up-stairs as fast as possible to get 
ready. 

1. As usual, half the articles she wanted to wear were miss- 
ing, and no two in* the same place, so that a long time was 
consumed in looking for them. One of her shoes was in her 
bedroom, but where the other had gone was a mystery which 
no one in the house could solve. The servants were called 
from their work to know if they had seen it, but none of them 
knew any thing about it. 

8. After wasting a long time in this way, Mary happened 
to recollect that the night before she had pulled it off, on ac- 
count of its hurtuig her, and thrown it under |;lje parlor lounge, 



CABELESSNESS. 37 

where it was found. The string was out ; but being by this 
time in a great hurry, Mary concluded it would stay on with- 
out one, and put it on as it was. In changing her dress, she 
noticed a small rent in the skirt, which her mother had told 
her of some days before, but which she had forgotten to mend. 

9. "Never mind," thought she, " it will not be noticed, and 
I can sew it up when I come home." One glove was in her 
pocket, and the other, after some search, she found in her re,t' 
icule. These required mending also, but were thrust on with- 
out it. The string of her bonnet was ripped off, and being in, 
too much haste to fasten it properly, she merely stuck a pin 
in it, hoping that this would answer the purpose. Being at 
last ready, Mary took the pitcher, which was a very handsome 
one, and started on her journey. 

10. It was a lovely day, and she went on for some distance 
in the greatest glee, although her shoe kept slipping up and 
down in a most troublesome manner. She was thinking how 
much pleased Mrs. Brown would be to see her, and get the 
nice broth, when, in crossing a stile, the corner of one of the 
steps caught in the rent in her dress, and tore a hole in the 
thin lawn nearly a quarter of a yard wide. 

11. Poor Mary could have cried heartily at seeing her 
pretty frock spoiled, but remembering that crjdng would not 
repair the injury, she forced back her tears, and pinned it up 
as well as she could. After having done this, she took up her 
pitcher and went on, though not quite so gayly as before, for 
she was afraid of receiving a scolding from her mother ; and 
she felt that she deserved one for not having mended her dress, 
as she was told to do. 

12. Her troubles had hardly begun ; for she had not gone 
much further when the piu came out of her bonnet-string, and 
a gust of wind carried away her bonnet, and sent it flying 
across the field. Mary set down her pitcher and ran after it 
as fast as she could ; but every time she got near to it, 
another puff of wind would take it far out of her reach, until 
at last it was blown into a sort of marshy place at the bottom 
ot the field. 

13. In her efforts to regain it, her foot sank deep into the 



38 THE THIRD EEADEB. 

soft, yielding eartli, and when she got it ont, the shoe which 
had no string to keep it on was left behind. Poor Mary was 
almost heart-broken at the loss of her shoe ; and her bonnet — 
which was floating in a mud-puddle — was a mere mass of wet 
ribbons and dirty straw. She stood crjring for some time, 
when happening to remember the pitcher which she had left at 
the end of the field, she started to look for it. 

14. The stones and sticks were so painful to her bare little 
foot, that she was almost lame before she reached the spot. 
Here, alas ! another misfortune awaited her. A dog happen- 
ing to come along during her absence had smelled the soup, 
and tried hard to get it. In so doing he had knocked the 
pitcher over against a stone, and there it lay, broken in a 
dozen pieces. This was too much for Mary. 

15. She sat down on the ground by the fragments, and 
cried as though her httle heart would break. Poor child I 
she was in a sad dilemma indeed. She could not go to Mrs. 
Brown's in this phght — without her bonnet, with but one 
shoe, her han* tangled and matted, and her frock soiled and 
torn ; and she was afraid, if she went home, her mother would 
be offended at the results of her carelessness. She thought 
how easily all this could have been avoided by a little care 
and a, few stitches. 

16. She was still sitting sobbing, when she heard a voice 
behind her exclaim in a tone of surprise, " Mary, is it possi- 
ble 1 Why, what can you be doing here ? " Mary turned, 
and saw through her tears her father's face looking kindly 
but in surprise upon her. As well as her sobs would permit, 
she told him the events of the morning exactly as they had 
occurred. 

17. "Well, Mary," said her father, when she had finished, 
" I am sorry to see you in so much trouble ; but your mother 
has often warned you of the effects which must result from 
your extreme carelessness ; but dry your eyes now, and come 
home with me ; this is no place for you." " Oh ! papa, how 
can I ? Ma will be so angry with me for losing my bonnet 
and shoe, and breaking her pitcher." 

18. " Never mind, my poor child ; come with me, and I do 



PEOPAGATION OF THE FAITH. 



39 



not think your mother will punish you, if she sees how sorry 
you are for your carelessness ; come 1 " 

Mrs. Bell was surprised at Mary's appearance ; but when 
she heard her story, and saw how distressed she really was, 
she did not scold her, but merely told her she hoped her morn- 
ing's adventures would teach her to be more careful in future. 

19. I am happy to be able to tell my little readers, that 
Mary has learned wisdom by experience, and is now all that 
her parents can desire. 



13. CONaBEGATION OF THE PROPAGATION OF THE FaITH. 



Su-preme', highest and greatest. 

Pa'gan, a heathen, an idola- 
tor. 

In-sti-tu'tion, system estab- 
lished. 



Doc-u'ments, important pa- 
pers. 

De-part'ment, division for the 
performance of certain du- 
ties. 



THE object of this Congregation is to spread the Christian 
Religion over the whole world. Before our Lord Jesus 
Christ ascended into Heaven, He said to St. Peter and the 
other Apostles, "Go teach all nations." The Pope, who is 
the successor of St. Peter, is the Supreme Pontiff, or Chief 
Bishop of the Catholic world. He is the one from whom the 
missionary receives his commission to preach the gospel to 
pagan nations. 

2. One of the chief objects of the Pope is to send mis- 
sionary priests to the farthest parts of the earth, and to direct, 
assist, and support them while they labor for the salvation of 
souls — ^for the Pope is the head pastor or shepherd over the 
flock of Christ, and his heart yearns to bring the poor pagans 
into the one fold. In this holy work, he is assisted by the 
Sacred College of Cardinals, a portion of which form what is 
called the Sacred Congregation de Propaganda, which means 
the Sacred Congregation for the spreading of the Faith. To 



4:0 THE THIED READEE. 

this Congregation is committed the management of the Cath- 
olic missions. 

3. This society was first commenced by Pope Gregory the 
Fifteenth, in 1622. He formed it, and supphed it with funds 
for its support His successor. Urban the Eighth, favored 
the Congregation, and set apart large sums of money for its 
success. 

4. So much good has been done by the Propaganda that 
many pious lay persons have given large donations to help the 
good missionaries, for they wished to have a share in the merits 
of those who, forsaking their hom^s, peril their lives to preach 
the gospel of Christ to the poor heathen nations. 

5. The managers of the Sacred Congregation of the Propa- 
ganda receive letters from the missionaries all over the world. 
Those letters are very interesting, and edifying. They contain 
accounts of the zeal and sufferings, and very often the martyr- 
dom, both of the missionaries and converts in pagan countries. 
Perhaps you have read the account of the martyrdom of the 
good, religious, and many others, who were killed in China in 
1870 by their pagan persecutors. 

The Holy Father has all the letters and other important 
documents that relate to the Propaganda carefully preserved. 

6. There is a printing establishment connected with the in- 
stitution, which is considered the most valuable in the world. 
It is furnished with types or characters of forty-eight different 
languages, by means of which the Holy Scriptures, works of 
instruction, and other books, may be printed in that number of 
languages. This is a great help in the labor of spreading the 
gospel among foreign nations, 

1. But the most important department of this Congregation 
is the College of the Propaganda, as it is usually called. This 
famous school was founded by Pope Urban the Eighth, in 
1827, and may be justly considered as the seminary of the 
universal Church. The design of this school is to educate, for 
the priesthood, young men from all the nations of the earth. 

8. Here may be found Chinese, Greeks, Arabians, Ethio- 
pians, Syrians, Bulgarians, Turks, Italians, French, Belgians, 
English, Irish, Seotch, Americans, Dutch, Germans, Spaniards, 



PEOPAGATION OF THE FAITH. 41 

Portuguese, Poles, Russians, with the inhabitants of various 
other portions of the globe — representing, in all, between forty 
and fifty tribes and nations of the earth. 

9. These are taught free of charge, all the branches of 
sacred and profane learning, and thus prepared, when raised 
to the holy order of priesthood, to enter upon the duties of 
the mission in their native countries, or bear the hght of 
Christ's gospel to pagan nations. 

10. Every year within the octave of the Epiphany, it is 
usual for the students of this College to celebrate the festival 
by a solemn academical exhibition. A Latin prose composi- 
tion is first read, followed by poetry written in the various 
languages. In 1841 the compositions and speeches read on 
the occasion, were in forty-four different languages. 

11. In this great variety of languages, we may see that the 
Catholic Church is universal, that is, spread over all nations ; 
and in this gathering of the youth of all nations and languages 
into one school for the purpose of learning one Faith, under 
the one chief Pastor, we see the unity of the Catholic Church, 
that Church which our Lord founded for the purpose of teach- 
ing all nations. 

12. The priests of the Catholic Church are never afraid to 
brave all the dangers and privations they must suffer when 
living among savages and barbarians, and they willingly leave 
all the enjoyments of civilized life to labor for the salvation of 
tiouls. 

13. Those trained in the College of the Propaganda are 
well prepared to perform this charitable work ; no difference in 
language or custom can hinder them from being understood by 
those among whom they labor, for they are enabled to speak 
to the various tribes of the earth in their native tongue, and in 
this manner they can easily teach them the divine truths of the 
Gospel. 



42 



THE THIRD BEADER. 



14. Live por Something. 



Em-ploy'ment, occupation. 
Self'ish, regarding one's own 

interest solely. 
Op-pressed', burdened. 



Syii'PA7THY, compassion, fel- 
low-feeling. 
Wea'ry, fatigued. 
Foun'tain, a jet of water 




■tv>jnwi>5* 



1. T I YE for something ; be not idle- 
-Li Look about thee for employ ; 
Sit not down to useless dreaming — 

Labor is the sweetest joy. 
Folded hands are ever weary. 

Selfish hearts are never gay, 
Life for thee hath many duties — 

Active be, then, while you may. 



2. Scatter blessings in thy pathway I 

Gentle words and cheering smiles 
Better are than gold and silver, 

With their grief-dispelling wiles. 
As the pleasant sunshine falleth 

Ever on the grateful earth, 
So let sympathy and kindness 

Gladden well the darken'd hearth. 



PREDOMINANT PASSIONS. 



43 



8. Hearts there are oppress'd and weary ; 

Drop the tear of sympathy, 
Whisper words of hope and comfort, 

Give and thy reward shall be — 
Joy unto thy soul returning 

From this perfect fountain-head ; 
Freely, as thou freely givest, 

Shall the grateful light be shed. 



15. Predominant Passions. 



Mas'ter-y, control, superior 

influence. 
TJn-rea ' SON - A - BLE, without 

reason. 
Re-com-mend'ed, advised. 



Haugh'ti-ness, an overbear- 
ing manner. 

Dis-gust'ing, exciting dislike, 
odious, hatefal. 

Con'tempt, act of despismg. 



IT is not usual, that in young persons, whose characters have 
not taken any settled form, any vice should have gained so 
decided an ascendency, as to enable themselves or others to 
discern clearly the nature of then* prevailing passion. Gen- 
erally speaking, they should be more anxious to correct all 
their faults, than to find out the chief among them ; as that 
is not easily seen until they are placed amid the busy scenes of 
the world. 

2. Still, as they cannot be made acquainted too early with 
the wretched effects of vice, it would be advisable for them to 
examine then* consciences now and then lest any evil propen- 
sity may take root in their hearts, thereby become the princi- 
ple of their actions, and frustrate the ends proposed in Chris- 
tian education. 

3. This prevailing passion of most persons is Pride, which 
never fails to produce not only thoughts of pride and vanity, 
but also such haughtiness of manner and self-importance, as to 
render them really disgusting and ridiculous. 

4. Constantly endeavoring to attract attention, and become 



44: THE THIRD READEE. 

the sole object of attention, they spare no pams to outdo 
others, to set themselves off, and by their conceited airs, their 
forwardness, their confidence in their own opinion, and neglect 
or contempt of that timid, gentle, retiring manner, so amiable 
and so attractive, especially in youth, they defeat their own 
purpose, and become as contemptible as they aim at being the 
contrary. 

5. Many are so little sensible of the awful duties imposed 
by Christian charity, as to be ever ready to blame, criticise, 
and condemn all who come under thek notice, and this is one 
of the most dangerous propensities, as the occasions for mani- 
festing it occur very often, and frequently lead to mortal sin. 
Persons who are thus badly disposed, talk continually of the 
faults of others, which they are always inclined to exagger- 
ate, though often those defects exist only in the detractor's 
embittered imagination, which represents others in so unfavor- 
able a point of view, as to subject their actions to the most 
unkind censure. 

6. To this may be added a fondness for sarcasm, which crit- 
icises and turns every thing and every person into ridicule, 
sparing neither superiors, friends, enemies, nor even the most 
sacred characters, such as clergymen. This disposition never 
fails to make numerous enemies ; and, though sometimes en- 
couraged by laughter and smiles of approval, yet it neverthe- 
less is generally as hated as it is hateful. 

t. Those whose temper is violent and unrestrained, cannot 
be ignorant that anger is their prevailing passion — ^their fre- 
quent, unreasonable, and impetuous sallies of anger, on the 
slightest occasions, render intercourse with them as unsafe as 
it would be with a maniac. Such dreadful and mournftd con- 
sequences have followed from even one fit of passion, as to 
render any family truly unhappy, who may possess a member 
with a violent temper. 

8. Those who feel inclined to this passion, should, while 
young, use all their efforts to overcome so dangerous a dis- 
position. Reason, affection for their family, proper regard for 
all those with whom they may be connected, and, above all, 
religion, furni^ powerful motives and means for reducing any 



PREDOMINANT PASSIONS. 45 

temper, however violent, to the standard of Christian meek- 
ness. The chief among those means is prayer, and the next, 
perhaps the most effectual, is complete silence under all emo- 
tions of anger. 

9. There are many other persons who, though they do not 
rank among the passionate, are nevertheless the pests of 
society, — particularly of domestic society. Their prevailing 
passion is a certain ill-humor, fretfulness, peevishness, and 
discontent, which pervades their words, manners, and even 
looks ; and it is usually brought into action by such mere 
trifles, as leave no chance of peace to those who live in the 
house with them. 

10. Children and servants are not the only butts of their 
spleen ; but even their best friends, then- superiors themselves, 
are not always secure from their ill-tempered sallies and their 
incessant complaints. In a word, their sourness, their dissat- 
isfied, discontented manner, effectually embitters every society, 
and throws a gloom over the most innocent amusements. As 
this luckless disposition is peculiarly that of women, young 
persons cannot be too earnestly recommended to combat in 
youth any tendency thereto, lest they become, when older, the 
greatest torment of that society they are certainly intended 
to bless and adorn. 

11. Sloth, which is the prevailing passion of many persons, 
is also one of those vices most difficult to correct. It shows 
itself by habitual indolence, and such negligence and apathy, 
that no duty, however serious, can rouse a person of this 
character to exertion. Days, weeks, and even years, pass 
over without any account of how they have passed ; for 
though the indolent form many projects of amendment, yet 
those projects are never executed, because their postponement 
is the effect of sloth. 

12. Any time but the present appears calculated for the 
discharge of duty, precisely because the most heroic efforts in 
prospect cost less than a single actual exertion. Thence it 
follows, that spiritual duties are so long neglected and de- 
ferred, that the torpor, which in youth could easily have been 
broken off, gains such a mastery that it becomes almost un- 



46 THE THIRD BEADER. 

conquerable, and at length reduces the soul to that dreadful 
state commonly called tepidity, which is only another word for 
sloth in spiritual matters. 

13. Then it is that every social and personal duty is aban- 
doned ; children, servants, affairs, spiritual and temporal, order, 
cleanliness, every thing is neglected, and permitted to run into 
such disorder and confusion, as to render the persons degraded 
by this vice, no less a disgrace to themselves than to their 
friends and to society. In a word, there is no passion which 
leads more certainly to misery hereafter ; for, after all, the in- 
animate victim of sloth, who has lived without energy, without 
sentiment, almost without a soul, wUl at last be thoroughly 
roused by death, whose approach is terrible indeed to those 
who lead a useless, inactive, idle, and, therefore, a most sinful 
life. 

14. Those whose prevailing passion is deceit, are frequently 
not considered dangerous characters, until they have given 
many persons cause to repent having had any intercourse 
with them. Their manners are generally as seductive as their 
motives are base and interested. They are usually distinguish- 
ed by a total disregard for truth ; a base system of appearing 
to coincide with every one, the better to gain that confidence 
which they only intend to abuse ; deceptive expressions — con- 
tinual cunning and deceit — with so great an opposition to 
candor and plain -dealing, as to adopt a thousand underhand 
means for carrying on their most simple and ordinary transac- 
tions, thereby engaging themselves and others in a labyrinth 
of difficulties, and spending then: whole lives in trouble, in 
dissimulation, and deceit. 

15. Even apart from religion, the natural desire we all have 
for happiness and security, should be motives enough for using 
efforts to counteract every tendency to this mean vice. It 
proves in general, sooner or later, its own punishment ; for, 
notwithstanding the deep-laid schemes, the cunning and arti- 
fices of those who seem to live for the purpose of deceiving 
their fellow-creatures, yet the depravity and meanness of their 
motives in all their actions, are seen through much clearer and 
more frequently than they are aware. Besides, one lie or trick 



PBEDOMINANT PASSIONS. 47 

often requires many more to give it a show of truth, and to 
invent these their mind must be constantly on the rack ; but 
as their craft is generally discovered, they are exposed to such 
contempt and distrust as to deprive them of all credit. 

16. Even when by chance they intend to deal fairly and 
openly, they are carefully shunned, because a long habit of 
deceiving has so indelibly stamped their character with the 
stigma of insincerity and knavery, as to render truth and false- 
hood equally disbelieved from their lips. In a word, they are 
sure to be, in the close of life, so hated, despised, and dis- 
trusted, as to become outcasts in society, a burden to them- 
selves, and almost as degraded and unhappy, even in this life, 
as they deserve to be. . 



16. Peedominant Passions — continued. 

Re-pug'nance, feeling of dislike. 
Ob'sta-cle, that which hinders. 




THE capital fault of some persons is excessive, ungovernable 
curiosity, a vice which is a certain road to many sins, 
especially in youth. It should, however, be observed, that 
there are two kinds of curiosity, one allowable, and even com- 
mendable, the other dangerous and sinful. They may be easily 



48 THE THIRD EEADER. 

distinguished, one from tlie other, by their different effects. 
That species of curiosity which is mnocent and desirable, 
especially in young persons, consists in a laudable desire of 
useful information ; this thirst after knowledge, when well reo-- 
ulated, produces emulation, application to study, patience and 
perseverance in difficulties, good employment of time, and a 
love for the society and conversation of the learned. 

2. The vice of curiosity, on the contrary, is the bane of 
useful acquirement, because it consists chieifly in an eager 
desire to hear and see every trifling event that takes place, 
and gives persons so much to do with the concerns of others, as 
to leave them no time to attend to their own. Curious persons 
are always on the look-out for what is termed news ; and as 
that levity and shallowness of mind which produces misguided 
curiosity, creates also a taste for unnecessary talk, they are 
never so well satisfied as when they have discovered a number 
of incidents to circulate among their friends and acquaintance. 

3. Their inquisitive air, — their prying and intrusive man- 
ners, — their incessant questions, — their eager impatience to be 
informed of every incident that takes place, and minute inquiries 
into the affairs of others, would lead to the idea that they 
were commissioned to investigate the origin, ancestors, names, 
tempers, fortunes, and faults of every person that comes in 
their way. Even the secrets of families, which curiosity itself 
should respect, are by no means sacred to the inquisitive, nor 
are even the most trivial domestic occurrences below their 
notice. 

4. On the contrary, to gain such information, they do not 
hesitate descending so low as to question children and serv- 
ants ; thereby giving occasion to numberless crimes against 
charity, often against truth. Another propensity of curious 
persons is a desire to hear and see precisely those things which 
they have been told were dangerous, and to read every species 
of publication which they have ever been told to avoid, or know 
to be at all unsafe. This contemptible disposition can only be 
rectified by many years' strict attention to the short rule of 
never interfering in what does not concern us, except when 
charity or duty dictates the contrary. 



PREDOMINANT PASSIONS. 49 

6. There are few persons, even among the best Christians, 
who have not had, sometimes, to regret offending with the 
tongue; but the faults committed and mischiefs occasioned 
by those whose unbridled passion for talk is their predomi- 
nant failing, can scarcely be estunated. This bad habit is 
chiefly observed in persons of weak heads, vacant minds, and 
shallow understandings, who appear wholly incapable of one 
instant's serious reflection, and know not what it is to think 
two minutes, even before they undertake to decide upon im- 
portant matters. Those who talk always, cannot hope always 
to talk sense, and hence their least material faults are absurd, 
random opinions, giddy, inconsistent expressions, and frequent 
faults against politeness and good-breeding ; for we see that 
your great talkers never allow others to deliver an opinion, or 
finish any sentence without helping them out. 

6. Their laughable and disgusting egotism, perpetual rela- 
tions of their own worthless adventures, ideas, or opinions, 
which they are too frivolous to perceive are interesting only 
in their own eyes ; their system of laughing, whispering, and 
ridiculing, generally mark out great talkers as persons of little 
or no intellect, though they often do not want sense, if they 
could but prevail on themselves to be silent, and reflect ever 
so little on the necessity of making use of that gift. 

t. But those, however, are the least serious faults produced 
by excessive love of talk. Sins against charity, breaches of 
confidence, discovery of the secrets of others, indiscreet com- 
munication of their own affairs and those of their families to 
acquaintances, strangers, even to servants ; remarks on the 
defects of others, breaches of truth, habitual exaggeration,* 
loss of time, dissipation and levity, are all the infallible con- 
sequences of a passion for talking ; besides the dreadful evils 
which unguarded repetition of stories has been known to pro- 
duce in society, by disuniting the members of families, irrita- 
ting and disgusting friends, breeding disturbances, &c. : evils 
which are much easier occasioned than removed. 

8. Could those useless bemgs, whose occupation is talk, 
foresee the mischief they may occasion, even by one word, 
which cfflen escapes their tongue and memory at the same 



50 THE THIRD HEADER. 

time, how bitterly they would regret the dearly-bought pleas- 
ure of talking ! how carefully would they study the virtue of 
silence and prudent restraint ! and thus spare themselves the 
regret of having unfeelingly published faults too true to be 
contradicted, and stories too mischievous in their effects to be 
easily remedied ; thus inflicting wounds they cannot afterwards 
heal. 

9. There are some persons who possess many amiable quali- 
ties, yet destroy the effect of them all by one predominant 
failmg, a fund of caprice and inconstancy. Those persons 
rarely succeed in gaining one sincere friend ; on the contrary, 
they seldom fail to disgust those whom they had at first 
attracted, because they frequently receive with marked reserve 
one day, those whom they treated with kindness the day before. 
On one occasion these changeable beings will scarce allow 
others to join in a conversation — the next, they will not by a 
single word manifest a desire to please. 

10. Theu' projects or undertakings are as variable as their 
ideas, and are never pursued with such steadiness as would 
encourage any rational persons to join in them ; nor can it ever 
be conjectured, from the projects of one day or hour, what 
those of the next ma}' be. They eagerly seek one moment after 
those objects which the next they despise ; and are one day 
dissolved in vain joy, another oppressed with melancholy. But 
what is infinitely worse than all is, that this irrational capri- 
ciousness, besides rendering them the jest of others, and a bm-- 
den to themselves, materially endangers then' eternal salvation. 

11. Their ideas and feelings on spiritual matters are just as 
variable as on all other occasions ; theii' plans of amendment 
and regularity, though frequently entered on with ardor, are 
as frequently abandoned ; consequently there can be no per- 
sons so Uttle likely to gain a crown, which is promised only to 
perseverance. 

12. Selfishness is a common failing, and a pecuharly un- 
amiable one, when it predominates in a character. Those 
persons who make self their idol, are from morning till night 
occupied in providing for their own pecuhar gratification and 
pleasure, and in taking measures for warding off from them- 



PEEDOMINANT PASSIONS. 51 

selyes every thing in the shape of troulble, inconyenience, prov- 
ocation, &c. ; thus they become almost the sole objects of 
their own thoughts, solicitudes, and exertions. 

13. They generally manifest their predominant failing to 
the least attentive observer, by an habitual inattention or 

j indifference when the gratification of others is in question, by 
an unfeeling indifference to the misfortunes of their fellow- 
creatures, and by being the last to make an exertion for their 
relief. They seem almost incapable of taking part in the pains 
or pleasures of others ; every species of misfortune or gratifi- 
cation pleases or grieves them, precisely only in as much as 
they perceive it is hkely to affect them personally. 

14. A propensity to excessive attachments is a fault which 
too frequently prevails in some warm, impetuous characters. 
Those persons are distinguished by a rash, hasty selection of 
favorites in every society ; by an overflow of marked atten- 
tions to the objects of their predilection, whose interests they 
espouse, whose very faults they attempt to justify, whose 
opinions they support whether right or wrong, and whose 
cause they defend often at the expense of good sense, charity, 
moderation, and even common justice. 

15. Woe to the person, whether superior or inferior, who 
ventures to dissent from them in opinion concerning the objects 
of their admiration ; that alone exposes them to aversion and 
censure. The friendship or affection of such characters does 
not deserve to be valued, for it results not from discernment 
of merit, but blind prejudice ; besides, they are remarkable for 
annoying those whom they think proper to rank among their 
favorites, both by expecting to engross their whole attention 
or confidence, and resenting every mark of kindness they may 
think proper to show to others. However, as their affections 
are in general as short-hved as they are ardent, no one person 
is likely to be tormented long with the title of their friend. 

16. The foregoing are the chief among those passions to 
which the majority of mankind are subject. There are also 
a variety of other shapes, in Which the capital sins generally 
prevail in the different characters. It would not be easy to 
mention them all, but you will not find it diflicult, aided by the 



52 THE THIED EEADER. 

grace of God, to discover your capital enemy, provided you 
ardently beg that grace and light, and are sincerely desirous 
to overcome it to the utmost of your power. 

17. The following marks by which you may discern your 
ruling passion, are pointed out by St. Chrysostom, and may 
assist your examination on this important point : 1st. Your 
prevailing passion is that propensity, disposition, or failing, 
which is the ordinary cause of your faults and sins. 2d. It is 
that which chiefly disturbs the peace of your soul, and occa- 
sions you most remorse and uneasy reflections. 3d. That of 
which you are obliged to accuse yourself most frequently in 
confession. 

18. 4th. That which gives occasion to the greatest conflicts 
in your soul, and which you feel most repugnance to overcome. 
5th. That which usually influences aU your thoughts, inten- 
tions, or projects, and which is the chief motive of all your 
actions ; that, in a word, which is most untractable and deeply 
rooted in your heart ; for if, when wounded on that point, you 
feel sensibly hurt, it is an evident mark that there is your 
prevailing passion, your capital enemy, the greatest obstacle 
to God's grace, and to your eternal salvation. 



17. My Boy Absalom. 



Pulse, the motion of the 

blood. 
Tress'es, knots or curls of 

hair. 



Reed, a hollow, knotted stalk, 

a pipe. 
Pall, a covering thrown over 

the dead. 



1. A LAS ! my noble boy ! that thou shouldst die 
-L^ Thou, who wert made so beautifully fan* ! 
That death should settle in thy glorious eye, 

And leave his stillness in this clustering hair I 
How could he mark thee for the silent tomb ! 

My proud boy, Absalom ! 



MY BOY ABSALOM. 



53 



2. " Cold is thy brow, my son ! and I am chill, 
As to my bosom I have tried to press thee ! 

How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, 

Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, 

And hear thy sweet ' my father I ' from these dumb 
And cold lips, Absalom I 




" But death is on thee. I shall hear the gush 
Of music, and the voices of the young ; 

And life will pass me in the mantling blush. 
And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung ; — 

But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shall come 
To meet me, Absalom ! 



4. " And oh ! when I am stricken, and my heart. 
Like a bruised reed is waiting to be broken, 



64 



THE THIRD READER. 



How will its love for thee, as I depart, 

Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token I 

It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, 
To see thee, Absalom ! 

5. "And now, farewell ! 'Tis hard to give thee up. 

With death so like a gentle slumber on thee ; — 
And thy dark sin ! — Oh ! I could drink the cup, 

If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. 
May God have call'd thee, like a wanderer, home, 

My lost boy, Absalom I '^ 

6. He cover' d up his face, and bow^d himself 
A moment on his child ; then, giving him 
A look of melting tenderness, he clasp'd 
His hands convulsively as if in prayer ; 
And, as if strength were given him of God, 
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall 
Firmly and decently — and left him there — 
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. 



18. The Scholar's Vision. 



Yis'iON, supernatural appear- 
ance. 
Cen'tu-ry, a hundred years. 
Stu-pid'i-ty, extreme dulness. 



Tur'bu-lent, tumultuous, dis- 
orderly. 
Sup-port'ed, aided, assisted. 
Con-ceal'ing, hiding. 



AMONG the students of the University of Padua during 
the early part of the thirteenth century, there was a. 
scholar by the name of Albert de Groot, a native of Lawin- 
gen, a town of Swabia, now fallen into decay. Albert was 
remarkable for his stupidity and the dulness of his intellect, 
and was at once the object of ridicule to his companions, and 
the victim of his teachers. 

2. In addition to his mental defects, he was timid and shy, 
and without any powers of speech to defend himself against 



THE SOHOLAB'S VISION. 55 

the taunts and jeers of his schoolmates. Even his diminutive 
size for one of his age, being then fifteen years old, did not 
escape the keenness of their satire. 

3. Albert was not insensible to their raillery, and more tl'ian 
once would have hstened to the temptation of despair, had it 
not been for the care of his virtuous mother, the ardent piety 
with which she had inspired his youthful mind, and his tender 
and lively devotion to the Blessed Yirgin. 

4. If he felt it hard to endure the jeers and ridicule of his 
companions, yet, when he considered that he had neither read- 
iness, memory, nor intelligence, he thought within himself that 
probably he deserved all their reproaches ; and that the career 
of science, which he so ardently desired, was not his vocation. 

6. Deeply influenced by this conviction, at th-e age of six- 
teen, he applied for admission into the Dominican Order, think- 
ing that if he did not shine among the brilliant men who were 
its glory, yet at least he might the better save his soul. The 
General of the Order, who was of his own country, gave him 
a kind welcome, and received him into the convent to complete 
his studies. 

6. But, alas ! he found in the cloister the same sorrows he 
had sought to avoid. His slow wit and dull intellect could 
take in nothing, or express nothing ; and though he found 
more charity among the novices than among the turbulent 
students of the university, yet he saw clearly that he was 
looked upon as the lowest in the house. 

7. His piety and humility for a long time supported him ; 
his courage did not fail ; he looked forward with liope to the 
day when his perseverance should surmount all obstacles and 
break the bonds which held him captive. He took the habit, 
and became a monk ; but still his backwardness as a scholar 
continued. 

8. After two years of patience, he began to be thoroughly 
discouraged ; he thought he had been mistaken ; that perhaps 
he had yielded to an impulse of pride in entering an order 
whose mission it was to preach to the people, and to proclaim 
to the world the faith of Christ ; and which, consequently, 
ought to be distinguished for science as well as for virtue ; 



56 THE THIRD READER. 

and considering that he should never be able to master either 
logic or eloquence, he resolved to fly from the convent. 

9. Concealing the matter from every human being, he con- 
fided the subject of his departure to the Blessed Virgin, his 
comforter in all his trials. On the night fixed for his de- 
parture he prayed longer than usual, then, after waiting till all 
the convent was asleep, he went from his cell, gained without 
noise the walls of the garden, and fixed a ladder against them. 
But before he ascended, he knelt again and prayed to God not 
to condemn the step he was taking, for that nevertheless ne 
would serve him, and belong to him, and to him alone. 

10. As he was about to rise, he beheld four majestic ladies 
advancing towards him. They were surrounded by a heavenly 
radiance, while their dignity, tempered with sweetness and se- 
Fenity, inspired him with confidence and respect. Two of them 
placed themselves before the ladder, as if to prevent him from 
ascending. 

11. The third drawing near, asked him kindly why he thus 
departed, and how he could desert his convent and throw him- 
self without a guide into the dangers of a wicked world. Al- 
bert, without rising from the ground, pleaded as an excuse his 
obstkiate stupidity, which resisted all the efforts of his per- 
severance. 

12. "It is," said the lady, "because you seek in the mere 
human strength of your own intellect, the light which comes 
only from God. Behold your Mother," pointing to the fourth 
lady, " your amiable protectress, who loves you tenderly ; ask 
her for the gift of knowledge ; implore her with confidence ; 
our intercession shall second you." 

13. The scholar recognized in the fourth lady the Immacu- 
late Queen of Heaven, and bending his face to the ground, he 
asked her in all the fervor of his heart for the light of science, 
as heretofore he had only prayed for the graces which tended 
to salvation. 

14. " Science, my son," answered the amiable Yirgin, " is 
full of dangers ; but your prayer shall not be rejected. In 
philosophy, which you so much desire, beware of pride ; let 
not your heart be puffed up. Long shall you possess the gift 



THE scholar's VISION. 57 

of science ; and I promise you, as a reward of your piety, that 
its light shall be withdrawn from you the moment it becomes 
dangerous to you." 

15. The vision disappeared, but Albert remained for an 
hour on his knees thanking God, and pouring forth the most 
fervent devotions to the Queen of Angels, who had so kindly 
interposed in his behalf. He then removed the ladder and 
retired to his cell. 

16. The next morning the whole convent was amazed at 
the astonishing change that had come over Albert ; in his 
classes he surprised both the teachers and scholars. His 
former heaviness had given way to the livehest and most sub- 
tle intelligence ; he understood every thing ; the most difficult 
problems were solved with a clearness that astonished all. 

17. No one, however, was aware of the vision, for the 
humble scholar kept it a secret. So rapidly did he advance 
in his studies, especially in philosophy, that in one year he 
passed all his companions, and even eclipsed his teachers. 
His piety and humility increased with his learning, and he ever 
remained inaccessible to the seductions of the world and vain 
glory. 

18. The scholar, who obtained this so wonderful gift of 
knowledge, as the reward of his tender devotion to the Blessed 
Virgin, was the celebrated Alhertus Magnus, who was so dis- 
tinguished during the thirteenth century. For fifty years he 
astonished all Europe by the vastness of his learning and the 
profoundness of his teaching. 

19. Whenever he spoke, crowds gathered to hear him ; and 
his discourse always produced the most salutary results : yet 
up to the age of seventy-five, he had never experienced the 
shghtest movement of vanity. 

20. It happened, however, on a certain occasion as he was 
preaching at Cologne, and seeing the immense audience elec- 
trified at his discourse, he Hfted his head with an air of dignity, 
and was about to indulge in a thought of self-admiration, when 
he stopped suddenly in the middle of a learned sentence, and 
descended from the pulpit without being able to finish it. He 
had lost his memory 



68 



THE t;;hird eeadeb. 



21. The Holy Yirgin, through whose intercession he had 
obtained the gift of knowledge, appeared to him and deprived 
him of it at the moment when it was about to become danger- 
ous to him. He fell back into the state of dullness which he 
had deplored at Padua. He understood the warning, and 
devoted all his thoughts to prepare himself for a holy death, 
which took place two years after, on the 15th of November, 
1282. 

22. Let children learn from this example, to place their 
studies under the patronage of the Queen of Heaven, and 
receive with the gift of knowledge, those virtues which will 
render them ornaments of society, and worthy candidates for 
heaven. 



19. BiBTH OF OUR Saviour. 



Cen'sus, numbering. 
Naz'a-reth, the vUlage in 

which our Saviour lived. 
Beth'le-hem, the village in 

which our Saviour was born. 



Ma'gi, wise men of the East. 
Ad-mis'sion, admittance. 
Pur'chased, bought. 
Mes-si'ah, name given to our 
Saviour 



Read deliberately, and pause to take breath and compress your lips. 
Give i its proper sound. Do not say pidchus ion purchase ; Messiar for 
Messiah. 

AUGUSTUS C^SAR having commanded a census to be 
taken of all the population of the empire, Joseph and 
Mary went from Nazareth to Bethlehem, whence their family 
had its origin. There it was that, in the year of the world 
4004, the Son of God came into the world, at the dead hour 
of night and in a poor stable, the poverty of Joseph being too 
great to pay for admission to an inn. 

2. His birth was speedily announced by the angels to some 
shepherds who were watching their flocks by night. " Glory 
to God" sang the heavenly messengers, making known the 
joyful tidings, "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth 
peace to men of good ivill ! " 

3. Eight days after his birth he was circumcised, and on 



BIBTH OF OUE SAVIOUK. 59 

that same day the Blessed Yirgin and St. Joseph, conforma- 
bly to the command which they had received from God by an 
angel, gave him the name of Jesus, which signifies Saviour, 
because he came to save all men, and to deliver them from sin 
and hell. 

4. To the name of Jesus has been added that of Christ, 
which means sacred or anointed, not that he was visibly con- 
secrated by hands, but by reason of his hypostatical union 
with the Father. 

We also call Jesus Christ Our Lord, because he has a par- 
ticular claim on all Christians, whom he has redeemed and 
purchased at the price of his blood. 

5. A fcAV days after Jesus was circumcised, he was recog- 
nized as God and as king by three Magi, who, guided by a 
star, came from the East to adore him. Having reached 
Jerusalem, they lost sight of the star, and went about inquir- 
ing for the new-bom king of the Jews. 

6. The doctors of the law, being questioned by Herod, 
king of Galilee, made answer that the Messiah was to be born 
in Bethlehem. Herod, being alarmed by this announcement, 
and already meditating the death of the divine infant, engaged 
the Magi to return and acquaint him with the place where the 
child was to be found, falsely saying that he, too, would wish 
to adore him. 

t. The Magi, resuming their journey, found the child, to 
whom they presented gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh ; 
but being warned by an angel that Herod only sought to kill 
the infant, they returned by another way to their own country. 

8. Forty days after the birth of Jesus, the Blessed Virgin 
and St. Joseph took him to the temple, to present him to God, 
according to the custom of the Jews, he being the first-born. 
The Blessed Virgin at the same time fulfilled the law of puri- 
fication, and offered what the law ordained, that is to say, a 
lamb for her son, and for herself, a pair of doves, being the 
gifts usually made by the poor — what examples of humihty, 
and of obedience to the law I 

9. Herod, seeing that the Magi returned no more, conceived 
the design of putting to death all children under two years 



60 THE THIRD EEADEK 

of age, whom he could find in Bethlehem or its vicinity, hop- 
ing thus to make sure of destroying the Saviour. But St. 
Joseph, apprised of this design by an angel, fled into Egypt 
with Jesus and Mary, where he remained till after the death 
of that barbarous prince. 

10. He then returned to Juaea, and again took up his 
abode in Nazareth of Galilee ; hence Jesus was called, through 
contempt, the Nazarene. 

The gospel tells us that at the age of twelve years Jesus 
was taken to Jerusalem to celebrate the festival of the Pasch, 
according to the custom of the Jews, when he remained be- 
hind in the temple unperceived by his parents. 

11. When they found that he was not with them, they sought 
him in vain for a whole day, whereupon they returned to Je- 
rusalem, where they found him in the temple, seated amid the 
doctors, listening to them and proposing to them questions in 
a manner so astonishing that all who heard him were surprised 
by his wisdom and his answers. 

12. At the age of thirty years, Jesus Christ was baptized 
by St. John the Baptist in the river Jordan ; at which time 
the Holy Ghost descended upon him in the form of a dove, 
and the eternal Father declared from the highest heavens that 
Jesus Christ was indeed his beloved Son. 

13. Soon after this, Jesus Christ was conducted by the 
Holy Ghost into the desert, where he fasted forty days. It 
is in honor and in remembrance of this fast of Jesus Christ 
that the Church has instituted the fast of Lent. 

Our Lord at that time permitted himself to be tempted by 
the devil, in order to teach us not to fear temptation, and also 
the manner in which we must resist it, so as to render it even 
profitable to our souls. 

14. Example. A certain mother whose piety was as great 
as her faith was enhghtened, recommended to her children to 
pass no day without asking the child Jesus for his blessing. 
''When," said she, "you are at your morning and evening 
prayers, picture to yourself the Blessed Yirgin, carrying in 
her arms the infant Jesus. 

15. "Bow dewn respectfully before her, and say with all 



SPANISH ANECDOTE. 61 

possible fervor ; ' Mary ! deign to extend over me the hand 
of thy divine Son, so that being blessed by him, I may avoid 
the evil which is displeasing to him, and practise the. good 
which is agreeable to him ; that I may imitate him in his 
obedience and in all his other virtues, so that I may become 
worthy of possessing him with thee in heaven I ' " 



20. A Spanish Anecdote. 



Ref'ec-to-ry, a dining-room in 

convents and monasteries. 
Ge-ron'o-mite, a monk. 
Dis-cerned', descried, seen. 



Fa-mil'iar, intimate, well- 
known. 
Ec'sTA-sY, rapture, trance. 
Ya'cant, empty. 



1. TT was a holy usage to record 

J- Upon each refectory's side or end 
The last mysterious supper of our Lord, 
That meanest appetites might upward tend. 

2. Within a convent-palace of old Spain, — 

Rich with the gifts and monuments of kings, — 
Hung such a picture, said by some to reign 
The sov'reign glory of those wondrous things. 

3. A painter of far fame, in deep delight, 

Dwelt on each beauty he so well discerned ; 
While, in low tones, a gray Geronomite 
This answer to his ecstasy returned : 

4. " Stranger I I have received my daily meal 

In this good company now threescore years ; 
And thou, whoe'er thou art, canst hardly feel 
How time these lifeless images endears. 

6. " Lifeless ! ah, no, while in my heart are stored 
Sad memories of my brethren dead and gone, 



6i4 



THE THIEB EEADEii. 



Familiar places vacant round our board, 
And still that silent supper lasting on I 

6. " While I review my youth, — what I was then,- 
What I am now, and ye, beloved ones all, — 
It seems as if these were the living men. 
And we the color'd shadows on the wall." 



21. Anecdotes of Dogs. 



Keen'ness, sharpness. 

Lit'er-a-ture, learning, ac- 
quaintance with books. 

Sa-gac'i-ty, quick discernment 
in animals. 



Giv'iL-izED, reclaimed from 

barbarism. 
Do-mes-ti-ca'tion, the act of 

making tame. 
Em-phat'ic, forcible. 




rpHE dog stands to man in the relation both of a valuable 
J- servant and an engaging companion. In many employ- 
ments, especially those of shepherds and herdsmen, he performs 
services of gi-eat importance, such as could not be supplied 
without him. In those sports of the field, such as hunting and 



AJSliCDOTES OP DOGS. 63 

shooting, which many persons pursue with such eagerness, the 
assistance of the dog is essential to success. 

2. By the keenness of scent he discovers the game, and by 
his swiftness of foot he runs it down. There is no period of 
time recorded by history in which we do not find the dog the 
friend and the servant of man ; nor is there any literature 
which does not contain some tribute to his faithfulness and 
sagacity. 

3. The savage, roaming over the pathless wilderness, and 
dependent upon the animals in the forest and the fish in the 
streams for his daily food ; and the civilized man, dwelling in 
a comfortable house in a town or village, agree in the attach- 
ment they feel for their four-footed friends. Many men of 
great eminence in literature and science have been remarkable 
for their fondness for dogs ; and more than one poet has sung 
the praises of particular specunens of the race. 

4. Sir Walter Scott was strongly attached to them, ana 
had one or more of them about him at all times during his 
Kfe. In one of his works he thus speaks of them : " The 
Almighty, who gave the dog to be the companion of our 
pleasures and our toils, has invested him with a nature noble 
and incapable of deceit. He forgets neither friend nor foe ; 
remembers, and with accuracy, both benefit and injury. 

5. "He has a share of man's intelhgence, but no share of 
man's falsehood. You may bribe a soldier to slay a man with 
his sword, or a witness to take life by false accusation, but 
you cannot make a dog tear his benefactor. He is the friend 
of man, save when man justly incurs his enmity." 

6. A long course of domestication, and peculiar modes of 
training and rearing, have divided the canine race into nearly 
a hundred varieties ; many of which show marked difierence in 
size and appearance. The savage bulldog seems hardly to 
belong to the same race as the dehcate lapdog, that sleeps on 
the rug, and is washed and combed by its fair mistress almost 
as carefully as an infant. 

t. The swift and slim greyhound looks very little like the 
sturdy and square-built mastiff. But there are certain traits 
of eharaeter, which, in a greater or less degree, are common 



64: THE THIRD EEADER. 

to all the kinds. Sagacity, docility, gratitude, a capacity 
to receive instruction, and attachment to his master's person, 
are qualities which belong to the whole race. Many anecdotes 
are to be found in books which prove the virtues and intelh- 
gence of the dog, from which we have made a selection for the 
entertainment of our young readers. 

8. Many instances have been recorded in which persons 
have been saved from drowning by dogs, especially by those 
of the jS'ewfoundland breed, which have a natural love of the 
water. A vessel was once driven on the beach by a storm in 
the county of Kent, in England. Eight men were calling for 
help, but not a boat could be got off to their assistance. 

9. At length a gentleman came on the beach accompanied 
by his Newfoundland dog. He directed the attention of the 
noble animal to the vessel, and put a short stick into his 
mouth. The intelligent and courageous dog at once under- 
stood his meaning, and sprang into the sea, fighting Ms way 
through the foaming waves. He could not, however, get 
close enough to the vessel to dehver that with which he was 
charged, but the crew joyfully made fast a rope to another 
piece of wood, and threw it towards him. 

10. The sagacious dog saw the whole business in an instant ; 
he dropped his own piece, and forthwith seized that which 
had been cast to him ; and then, with a degree of strength 
and of resolution almost incredible, he dragged it through the 
surge, and dehvered it to his master. By this means a hue of 
communication was formed, and every man on board saved. 

11. A person, while rowing a boat, pushed his Newfound- 
land dog into the stream. The animal followed the boat for 
some time, till probably finding himself fatigued, he endeavored 
to get into it by placing his feet on the side. His owner 
repeatedly pushed the dog away ; and in one of his efforts to 
do so, he lost his balance and fell into the river, and would 
probably have been drowned, had not the affectionate and 
generous animal immediately seized and held him above water 
till assistance arrived from the shore. 

12. A boatman once plunged into the water to swim with 
another man for a wager. His Newfoundland dog, mistaking 



ANECDOTES OF DOGS. 65 

the purpose and supposing that his master was in danger, 
plunged after him, and dragged him to the shore by his hair, 
to the great diversion of the spectators. 

13. Nor are the good offices of dogs to man displayed only 
on the water. A young man in the north of England, while 
he was tending his father's sheep, had the misfortune to 
fall and break his leg. He was three miles from home, in 
an unfrequented spot, where no one was hkely to approach ; 
evening was fast approaching, and he was in great pain from 
the fracture. In this dreadful condition, he folded one of his 
gloves in a pocket handkerchief, fastened it around the dog's 
neck, and then ordered him home in an emphatic tone of voice. 

14. The dog, convinced that something was wrong, ran 
home with the utmost speed, and scratched with great violence 
at the door of the house for admittance. The parents of the 
young man were greatly alarmed at his appearance, especially 
when they had examined the handkerchief and its contents. 
Instantly concluding that some accident had befallen their son, 
they did not delay a moment to go in search of him. The 
dog anxiously led the way, and conducted the agitated parents 
to the spot, where their suffering son was lying. Happily, he 
was removed just at the close of day, and the necessary assist- 
ance being procured, he soon recovered. 

15. On one of the roads leading from Switzerland to Italy, 
called the Pass of St. Bernard, is a convent situated at more 
than eight thousand feet above the level of the sea. In the 
winter time, when the cold is intense and the snows are deep, 
travellers are exposed to great danger ; and the inmates of the 
convent, when storms are raging, are in the habit of going 
abroad to assist such wayfarers as may need their services. 

16. They are accompanied by their dogs, a noble breed of 
animals, who are called by the name of the convent where they 
are kept. They carry food and cordials fastened at their necks, 
and are able to pass over snow-wreaths too Hght to bear the 
weight of a man. They are aided by the acuteness of their 
scent in finding the unfortunate persons who have been buried 
in the snow, and many men have owed their lives to the timely 
succor afforded by these four-footed friends of men. 



66 THE THIRD READER. 

17. One of them, which served the convent for twelve years, 
is said to have been instrumental in saving the lives of forty 
individuals. He once found a little boy, who had become be- 
numbed by the cold, and fallen down upon a wreath of snow. 
By licking his hands and face, and by his caresses, he induced 
the little fellow to get upon his back, and cling with his arms 
around his neck ; and in this way he brought him in triumph 
to the convent. 

18. This incident forms the subject of a well-known picture. 
When this dog died, his skin was stuffed and deposited in the 
museum at Berne ; and the little vial in which he carried a 
cordial draught for the exhausted traveller still hangs alg^ut 
his neck. How many men have there been, endowed with 
reason and speech, whose hves were less useful than that of 
this noble dog ! 



22. The Burial of Sir John Moore. 



Ram'part, the wall of a fort- 
ress. 
Mar'tial, military. 



Ran'dom, done without aim, 

left to chance. 
Reck, care, mind. 



^•W 



Do not say uhhraid for upbraid. 

OT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero was buried. 



2. We buried him darkly at dead of night, 

The sods with our bayonets turning ; 
By the strugghng moonbeam's misty Mght, 
And the lantern dimly burning. 

3. No useless coffin inclosed his breast. 

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him. 



THE BUEIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 
And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 

But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, 
And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 



67 




5. We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed. 

And smooth'd down his lonely pillow, 
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, 
And we far away on the billow. 

6. Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; 
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 
In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 



1. But half of our heavy task was done 

When the clock toll'd the hour for retiring ; 



68 



THE THIED BEADEB. 



And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 

We carved not a hne, and we raised not a stone, 
But we left him alone in his glory. 



23. I TBY TO BE Good. 



Yex-a'tion, cause of trouble. 
Dif'fi-cul-ties, obstacles in 
one's way. 



Warn'ing, previous notice, a 

caution. 
Ob'sti-na-cy, perverseness. 




i 



TRY to be good," said Emily, "but I have so many vexa- 
tions, that I find it difficult to do as I wish ; for whenever 
I feel pleased and happy, something will happen to give me a 
heavy heart." "But, child," said her mother, "you should rise 
above these Httle trifles ; a sincerely virtuous endeavor, pro- 
ceeding from right principles, enables one to overcome little 
difficulties. It was but last evening I was reading a story on 
this very subject. 

2. "It was the confession of a man who had severe struggles 
with a bad temper. He said that when he was a little child 



I TRY TO BE GOOD. 69 

he was noted for obstinacj, one of the worst faults of man or 
child. He had an indulgent mother, who kindly softened his 
unhappy hours by devising various ways for his amusement : 
' But/ said he, ' if she did not succeed in the plan, I was sure 
to wear a sullen face.' 

3. " But, to teach him how unjust and insensible he was to 
that kindness, his mother was taken ill, and died. It was 
then he felt how much he owed to her ; and bitter was his 
grief that he could not, by future acts of love, repair the un- 
happiness he had caused her. But now that her warning 
voice could not reach him, he was left to go on more unre- 
strained : ' And/ said he, ' until I began to see this trait of 
obstinacy displayed in my own children, I never began in 
earnest to correct it in myself.' 

4. "Let this, Emily, be your warning," said her devoted 
mother. " The little trials of life were designed to answer the 
same purpose in children, that heavier trials are to older 
people ; and just in proportion as we bear them now, shall 
we be fitted to endure hfe's future discipline. It is not a small 
matter, if an evil temper is -permitted to be indulged under 
every disappointment. 

5. ''Do you remember, Emily, that ugly-shaped tree, that 
you desired the gardener to remove the other day, because it 
grew so very crooked ; and you remember that he told you 
the reason of its being so ill-shaped, was because it was not 
pruned as it grew up." 

6. " Yes, mother/' said the smiling girl ; " and just so it 
will be with me : if I do not watch over my evil temper now, 
— I suppose you mean to say, — that like that tree, I shall be 
deformed in mind, which you always told me was a much 
greater blemish than a deformed body. I will endeavor to- 
morrow to be cheerful all day." "And if you desire to be 
good/' added her mother "the virtuous attempt will be attend- 
ed with success." 



70 



THE THIKD READER. 



24 The Geeen Mossy Bank. 



In'fan-cy, the first period of 

life. 
Wan'der, to rove, to ramble. 
Stream, running water. 



Spray, water driven by the 

wind. 
But'ter-cup, a small yellow 

flower. 




1. f\Si, my thoughts are away where my infancy flew, 

^ Near the green mossy banks where the buttercups grew, 

Where the bright silver fountain eternally play'd, 

First laughing in sunshine, then sighing in shade. 

There in my childhood, I've wander'd in play, 

Flinging up the cool drops in a shower of spray, 

Till my small naked feet were all bathed in bright dew, 

As I play'd on the bank where the buttercups grew. 



2. How softly that green bank sloped down from the hill, 
To the spot where the fountain grew suddenly still I 
How cool was the shadow the long branches gave, 
As they hung from the willow and dipp'd in the wave 1 



ON THE BAPTISMAL VOWS. 71 

And then each pale lily that slept on the stream, 
Rose and fell with the wave as if stirr'd by a dream. 
While my home 'mid the vine-leaves rose soft on my view, 
As I play'd on the bank where the buttercups grew. 

3. The beautiful things ! how I watch'd them unfold, 
Till they hfted their delicate vases of gold. 
Oh ! never a spot since those days have I seen, 
With leaves of such freshness and flowers of such sheen ; 
How glad was my spirit, for then there was nought. 
To burden its wing, save some beautiful thought. 
Breaking up from its depths with each wild wind that blew 
O'er the green mossy bank where the buttercups grew 

The paths I have trod, I would quickly retrace, 

Could I win back the gladness that look'd from my face, 

As I cool'd my warm lip in that fountain of love, 

With a spirit as gentle as that of a dove. 

Could I wander again where my forehead was starr'd, 

With the beauty that dwelt in my bosom unmarr'd ; 

And calm as a child, in the starlight and dew. 

Fall asleep on the bank where the buttercups grew. 



25. On the Baptismal Vows. 



Re-nounced', rejected. 
Af-firm'a-tive, ratifying. 
Rat'i-fi-ed, confirmed. 
Fi-del'i-ty, faithfulness. 
Con'stant-ly, without ceasing. 
Pro-fes'sion, avowal. 



A-pos'ta-sy, renouncing one's 
faith or solenm promises. 

Pre'cepts, commandments. 

Thral'dom, bondage. 

Yi'o-late, to transgress, to 
break. 



Give each vowel its sound. Do not say 'postasy for apostasy ; fud- 
delity for fidelity ; incessuntly for incessantly. 

TTT HEN presented to the Church to receive holy baptism, 

'» we were asked if we believed in God, if we would live 

accordmg to the precepts of the gospel, and if we renounced 



72 THE THIED EEADER. 

with all our heart the devil and his pomps, the world and its 
maxims ; and it was only when a formal and affirmative answer 
had been returned, that we were admitted among the children 
of God. 

2. It was, therefore, in the face of heaven and earth, in the 
presence of God and his holy angels, that we promised to obey 
the law of Christ, and to practise it in its fullest extent. 

3. It is true we had not the use of reason at the time of 
our baptism ; but it was for us and in our name that these 
promises were made ; we have since ratified them as often as 
we made a public profession of Christianity ; we also confirmed 
them every day by making on om'selves the sign of the cross, 
by reciting the Lord's prayer, assistmg at the holy sacrifice of 
the mass, and by receiving the sacraments. 

4. We are not, therefore, our own property, but belong to 
God, — our soul, our body, and all are his. To follow the 
maxims of the world, to seek after its vanities, to love the 
pomps of the devil, to be ashamed of the gospel, would be to 
renounce the character of a Christian, violate our engagements, 
trample on the blood of Jesus Christ, outrage the Holy Ghost, 
and shamefully expel him from our hearts. 

5. Let us, then, never forget that these vows are written in 
the book of life, that God has account of them in heaven, 
and that we shall be judged by them at the hour of death. 
On our fidelity in fulfilling them depends our salvation and our 
eternal destiny. 

6. In order to keep them in our minds we ought often to 
renew them, and constantly to thank the Lord for having 
snatched us from the thraldom of the Evil One, and called us 
to the kingdom of his Son. 

t. We read in the history of the Church that a holy dea- 
con, named Murrita, having answered at the sacred font for 
a young man named Elpiphodorus, had the misfortune to see 
him become an apostate and a persecutor of the Christians. 

8. One day, when he was publicly tormenting some Chris- 
tians in the midst of an immense crowd, the holy deacon sud- 
denly appeared ; he had preserved the white robe wherewith 
Elpiphodorus had been covered at his baptism, and presenting 



THE LITANY. 



73 



it to him, he cried in a loud voice : " Behold the witness of 
thine apostasy ; this will bear testimony agamst thee at the 
judgment-seat of God. 

9. "Look upon this white garment wherewith I clothed 
thee at the sacred font ; it wUl call for yengeance upon thee, 
and it shall be changed into a robe of fire to burn thee for all 
eternity." The spectators were moved to tears by this ad- 
dress, and Elpiphodorus withdrew, covered with confusion. 



26. The Litany. 



To Lurk, to lie in wait. 
Lit'a-ny, a solemn form of 
prayer. 

Read this lesson slowly and pronounce the consonants distinctly. 



Sub'tle, cunning. 
Se-pxjl'chral, relatmg to the 
tomb. 




BY thy birth and early years ; 
By thy human griefs and fears ; 
By thy fasting and distress. 
In the lonely wilderness ; 
By thy victory, in the hour 
Of the subtle tempter's power — 
Jesus ! look with pitying eye, 
Hear our solemn litany 
4. 



74 THE THIED READER. 

2. By the s^Tupathy that Trept 

O'er the grave where Lazarus slept ; 
By thy bitter tears that flowed 
Over Salem's lost abode ; 
By the troubled sigh that told 
Treason lurk'd within thy fold — 
Jesus ! look with pitying eye, 
Hear our solemn htany. 

8. By thine hour of dark despair ; 
By thine agony of prayer ; 
By the pm-ple robe of scorn ; 
By thy wounds, thy crown of thorn, 
Cross and passion, pangs and cries ; 
By thy perfect sacrifice — 
Jesus ! look with pitying eye, 
Hear our solemn litany. 

4 By thy deep expiring groan ; 
By the seal'd sepulchral stone ; 
By thy triumph o'er the grave ; 
By thy power from death to save— 
Mghty God ! ascended Lord ! 
To thy tlirone in heaven restored ; 
Prince and Saviom* ! hear the cry 
Of our solemn litany. 



27. The Sign of the Cross. 



Dis-ci'pLE, a follower, a learn- 
er ' 

Mys'te-ry, something unex- 
plained. 



Cow'ard-ice, habitual timid- 
ity. 
Chest, the breast. . 
Im-port'axt, momentous. 



Do not say peifession for profesdon ; hen or hea7i for heeii (bin) ; thor 
faith for their faith ; an uccomplish for and accomplish ; loith the sisiunce of 
(he mos sohj for ivith the assistance of the Mod Ildy. 



SIGN OF THE CROSS. 



75 




TO make profession of onr faith is one of our most essential 
duties, for Jesus Christ will not recognize as his disciples 
those who have been ashamed of belonging to him, and shrank 
from declaring their faith openly. 

2. One of the best means of showing that we are Christians, 
glorying in that title, is to make religiously upon ourselves the 
august sign of the cross. 

3. There are two ways of making the sign of the cross : 
the first is by making a cross with the thumb on the forehead, 
mouth, and bosom ; it is thus that the priest makes it during 
the mass, when he begins to read the gospels, and all the 
faithful should do the same. 

4. We make the sign of the cross on the forehead, to show 
that we are Christians, and not ashamed to act as such ; on 
the mouth, to testify that we are ever ready to make profes- 
sion of believing in God and in Jesus Christ ; and on the 
breast, to show that we love the o'oss of Christ, and heartily 
beheve what we profess. 



76 THE THIKD BEADEB. 

5. The second method of making the sign of the cross is by 
placing the right hand on the forehead, then on the chest, 
then on the left shoulder, and afterwards on the right, saying, 
" In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy 
Ghost." 

6. When making the sign of the cross we profess the unity 
of God by saying these words In the name, in the singular 
number ; the Trinity of persons, by naming each in turn ; the 
mystery of the Incarnation and that of the Redemption by 
making the form of the cross on which the Son of God made 
man died for us ; and the mystery of grace, by carrying the 
hand from the left side, which is the figure of sin, to the right, 
which represents the grace merited for us by Christ. 

7. The words "In the name of the Father," signify again : 
"I am going to perform this action by order of the Most 
Holy Trinity ; I will obey it faithfully, and accomplish its 
will ; I do this in honor of the Blessed Trinity, desiring to 
render it all the homage of which I am capable. 

8. ** I am about to perform this action with the assistance of 
the Most Holy Trinity ; acknowledging that I can do nothing 
without the strength which comes from the Father, the grace 
which the Son has merited for me, and the light which pro- 
ceeds from the Holy Ghost." 

9. We should not fail to make the sign of the cross at least 
morning and evening, before and after meals, at the beginning 
and end of our prayers, and when setting about any important 
action ; it is a great means of drawing down upon om^selves 
and our undertakings the blessing of God. 

10. We should also make it, at least in our hearts, when we 
find ourselves exposed to danger or temptation, to the end 
that we may be dehvered therefrom, and preserved from 
offending God. 

11. A young girl blushed while making the sign of the cross 
on an occasion when it was usual to make it, and that because 
a stranger was present. This was noticed by a certain pious 
person, who soon made her ashamed of her cowardice, and 
want of love for Jesus Christ. 

12. "What!" said he, "Jesus was not ashamed to die on 



THE THREE FRIENDS. 77 

the cross to redeem you, yet you blush to form on yourself the 
august sign of your redemption ! " He added, " I hope that 
in future you will glory in belonging to your adorable Master. 
May the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost bless you, through the 
passion and death of Our Lord Jesus Christ ! " 



28. The Three Friends. 

Trust, confidence, reliance. I Wor'thy, deserving. 
Pris'on, a jail. I Heed, care, attention. 

TRUST no friend whom you have not tried. There are 
more of them at the festive board than at the prison door. 

2. A man had three friends ; two of them he loved much, 
but for the third he cared little, though he was well worthy 
of his affection. This man was once summoned before th& 
judge and strongly accused of a crime of which he was really 
innocent. ''Who among you," said he, "will go with me, 
and give evidence in my behalf? For I have been accused 
without cause, and the king is angry." 

3. The first of his friends excused himself immediately ; say- 
ing that he could not go with him on account of other busi- 
ness. The second accompanied him to the door of the hall 
of justice ; there he turned round and went back, through 
fear of the angry judge. The third, on whom he had least 
depended, went in, spoke for him, and testified so fully to his 
innocence, that the judge dismissed him unharmed. 

4. Man has three friends in this world, How do they be- 
have in the hour of death, when God calls him to judgment ? 

5. The gold, the friend he loves best, leaves him first, and 
does not go with him. His relations and friends attend him 
to the gate of the grave, and return to their homes. The 
third, of whom in life he took least heed, is represeftted by his 
good works. They attend him to the throne of the Judge ; 
they go before him, plead for him, aud find mercy and grace 
for him. 



78 



THE THIKD EEAJDEB. 



29. Song of the Eailroad. 



Brake, a place overgrown 
with fern, a thicket. 

Aq'ue-duct, a channel for car- 
rying water, supported by 
some structure. 

Mar'gin, the water's edge, the 
shore. 



Mould, fine, soft earth. 
Goal, the point set to arrive 

at, the end of the journey. 
Ex-pan'sion, the state of being 

expanded or stretched out. 
Cease'less, without a stop or 

pause. 




1. npHKOUGH the mould and through the clay, 
-1- Through the corn and through the hay, 
By the margin of the lake. 
O'er the river, through the brake, 
O'er the bleak and dreary moor, 
On we hie with screech and roar ! 

Splashing I flashing ! 

Crashing ! dashing ! 



2. Over ridges, 
GuUies, bridges I 
By the bubbling rill, 

And mill — 
Highways, byways, 

Hollow hill— 



SONG OP THE RAILROAD. 79 

Jumping — bumping — 
Rocking — ^roaring 

Like forty thousand giants snoring ! 
By the lonely hut and mansion, 
By the ocean's wide expansion — 
Where the factory chimneys smoke, 
Where the foundry bellows croak — 
Dash along ! 
Slash along ! 
Crash along ! 
Flash along ! 

On ! on ! with a jump, 
And a bump, 
And a roll ! 
Hies the fire-fiend to its destuied goal I 

Over moor and over bog, " . 
On we fly with ceaseless jog •, 
Every instant something new, 
No sooner seen than lost to view ; 
Now a tavern — now a steeple — 
Now a crowd of gaping people — 
Now a hollow — now a ridge — 
Now a crossway — now a bridge — 
Grumble, stumble, 
Kumbie, tumble — 
Church and steeple, 
Gaping people — 
Quick as thought are lost to view I 
Every thing that eye can survey. 
Turns hurly-burly, topsy-turvy ! 
Each passenger is thump'd and shaken, 
As physic is when to be taken. 

By the foundry, past the forge, 
Through the plain, and mountain gorge, 
Where cathedral rears its head, 
Where repose the silent dead ! 



80 THE THIRD READER. 

Monuments amid the grass 

Flit like spectres as you pass ! 

If to hail a friend inchned — 

Whisk ! whirr ! ka — swash ! — ^he's left behind 

Kumble, tumble, all the day, 

Thus we pass the hours away. 



30. YlCTORINUS. 



Pro-fi'cien-cy, advancement, 
improvement gained. 



Ex-As'PER-ATE, to vex, to pro- 
voke. 



Rhet'o-ric, the science of ora- Ad-min'is-ter-ed, managed, 
tory. I supplied. 

Do not say pernounced for pronounced; perfession for profession; respec 
for the sandy of the place, for respect for the sanctity of the place. 

YlCTORINUS, a celebrated orator, had been professor of 
rhetoric at Rome ; he had passed his life in the study of 
the liberal sciences, and had attained a great proficiency in 
all of them. He had read, examined, and explained almost 
all the writings of the ancient philosophers, and had had the 
honor of instructing all the most distinguished of the Roman 
senators. 

2. He had, in fine, followed his profession so successfully, 
that a statue had been erected to his honor in a pubhc square 
of Rome, a distinction then considered the highest that man 
could attain. Yet he was still a pagan, an adorer of idols ; 
and not only that, but he employed all his eloquence in per- 
suading others to adore them as he did. 

3. What extraordinary grace did it require to touch and 
convert such a heart ! Behold the means which God employed 
in doing so. Yictorinus began to read the Holy Scriptures, 
and having for some time apphed himself to that study, to- 
gether with other books that explained the Christian religion, 
he said one day to St. Simplician : "I have something to tell 
you which will interest you very much : I am a Christian" — 



VICTORINUS. 81 

"I do not believe a word of it," replied the Saint, ''nor shall 
I believe you, until I see you in the church where the faithful 
are wont to assemble." 

4. "What then," exclaimed Yictorinus, "is it only within 
the inclosure of four walls that one is a Christian ? " So it 
went on for some time, as often as Yictorinus protested that 
he was a Christian, Simplician made him the same reply, and 
the other always put it off with a laugh and a. jest. 

5. The truth was, that he feared to exasperate his pagan 
friends, as their anger and opposition would be sure to crush 
him, if once called forth, and this risk he could not bring him- 
self to incur. 

6. But after a time courage and generosity were given him 
from above because of his close application to the study of 
religion, and the docility with which he opened his heart to .its 
truths, and he became convinced that it would be an enormous 
crime to blush for beheving the mysteries of Jesus Christ, 
while appearing to glory in the sacrilegious superstitions of 
paganism. 

t. No sooner did he obtain this conviction than he hastened 
to tell St. Simplician, at a time, too, when that holy man was 
least expecting him : "Let us go to the church," said he, " I 
am resolved to show myself a Christian, nor content myself 
longer with being one in heart." Simplician, transported with 
joy, immediately took him to the church, and had his name 
entered on the list of those who demanded baptism. 

8. All the city of Rome was struck with admiration and 
astonishment ; and the hearts of the faithful were filled with 
joy, because of the celebrity and high reputation of that great 
man. At length the happy day arrived when he was to make 
his profession of faith, in order to be baptized. 

9. It was then the custom in the Roman church to make 
this profession in a regular formula of words which the cate- 
chumen learned by heart, and pronounced aloud before all the 
people. The priests, through respect, would have waived this 
custom, and permitted Yictorinus to make his profession in 
private, a privilege which was sometimes granted to timid per- 
sons ; but Yictorinus declined, declaring that he would pro- 



82 THE THIRD EEADER. 

claim aloud, in presence of the whole assembly, his belief in 
those doctrines which were to guide him to endless happiness. 

10. No sooner had he appeared in the tribune than a sudden 
transport of joy seized all hearts, and his name was echoed 
aloud from mouth to mouth, and although each one restrained 
his joyful emotion through respect for the sanctity of the place 
and the sacrament about to be administered, yet all around 
was heard the murmured exclamation : It is Victorinus I It 
is Victorinv,s ! 

11. But every sound was speedily hushed, in order to per- 
mit him to speak ; whereupon, he with holy fervor, repeated 
in a clear, distinct voice, his belief in the truths which form 
the basis of our faith. Willingly would the people have taken 
him and carried him around in triumph, for every heart over- 
flowed with the joy of beholding him a Christian. 

12. This splendid conversion had great consequences, and 
when St. Augustine was informed of it by St. Simplician, he 
acknowledged that he felt strongly moved to follow the exam- 
ple of Victorinus ; this intention he soon after carried into 
execution under the ministry of St. Ambrose, to whom St, 
Simplician had been a father from his baptism. 



31. GuAEDiAN Angels. 

Sub-ser'vi-ent, serviceable. I Em'a-nat-ing, issuing, or flow- 
Way'ward, unruly, perverse. | ing from. 
Do not say moles for moulds. 

1. /^H ! he may brave life's dangers, 
^ In hope and not in dread, 
Whose mother's prayers are lighting 

A halo round his head. 
For wheresoe'er he wander. 

Through this cold world and dark, 
There white-wing'd angels follow, 

To guard life's wayward bark. 

2. Go, let the scoffer call it 

A shadow and a dream, 



GUAKDIAN ANGELS. 

Those meek, subservient spirits, 
Are nearer than we deem. 

Think not they visit only 
The bright, enraptured eye, 

Of some pure samted martyr. 
Prepared and glad to die ; 



83 




Or that the poet's fancy, 
Or the painter's magic skill, 

Creates a dream of beauty. 
And moulds a work at will. 



84 THE THIRD HEADER. 

3. They live, they wander round us, 

Soft resting on the cloud, 
Although to human vision, 

The sight be disallow'd. 
They are to the Almighty 

What rays are to the sun. 
An emanating essence, 

From the great supernal One. 

4. They bend for prayers to listen, 

They weep to witness crimes, 
They watch for holy moments. 

Good thoughts, repentant times 
They cheer the meek and humble, 

They heal the broken heart. 
They teach the wavering spirit 

From earthly ties to part. 
6. Unseen they dwell among us, 

As when they watch below. 
In spiritual anguish, 

The sepulchre of woe. 
And when we pray, though feeble 

Our orisons may be, 
They then are our companions. 

Who pray eternally. 



32. The Kesi3RRection of the Body. 



Moul'der, to rot, 
Es-tab'lish-ed, fixed. 
E-E-sus'ci-TATE, to bring to life. 
Om-nip'o-tence, unlimited pow- 
er. 



Im-pas'si-ble, not subject to 

suffering. 
In-con-ceiv'a-ble, not to be 

conceived. 
Cor-kup'tion, decay. 



Give its proper sound. Do not say conserlation for consolation) 
Vgether for together ; V create for to create. 

IT is an article of faith that our body shall one day rise again. 
All men shall die, and they shall rise agaui with the same 
bodies they had in this life. The body, laid in the earth, shall 



THE KESUKRECTION OF THE BODY. 85" 

go through the process of corruption, and moulder into dust ; 
but what changes soever it may have undergone, its ashes shall 
one day be gathered together and reanimated by the breath 
of God. Life is but a dream, and death a sleep ; but the 
resurrection will be the beginning of a life which shall never 
end. 

2. ''The day will come," said Jesus Christ, "when all who 
are in the grave shall hear the voice of the Son of God, and 
they who have done good works, shall rise and live forever ; 
but they who have done evil shall rise to be condemned." 
"In a moment," says St. Paul, "in the twinkling of an eye, at 
the sound of the last trumpet, the dead shall arise to die no 
more." 

3. That resurrection shall be general ; all shall arise, the 
great and the small, the just and the wicked, they who have 
lived before us from the beginning of the world, they who are 
now on the earth, they who shall come after us, all shall die, 
and rise again at the last day with the same bodies they had 
in this life. 

4. It is God who will work this prodigy by his Omnipotence. 
As he has drawn all things from nothing by his will alone, 
so shall he with as much ease, gather together our scattered 
members, and reunite them with our souls. It is not more 
difficult for the Almighty to reanimate our bodies than it was 
for him to create them. Nay, we have under our eyes, every 
year, a figure of this resurrection. 

5. Are not the trees, as it were, dead during the winter, 
and do they not appear to resuscitate in the spring ? The 
grain and other seed which is cast into the earth, decays there- 
in, only to come forth again fairer than at first : it is the same 
with our body ; which, like a seed, is laid in the earth for a 
season, to come forth again full of life. 

6. The bodies of the just shall not then be solid, heavy, and 
corruptible, as they now are ; but they shall shine like the sun, 
and shall be free from all sorts of pain and inconvenience, full 
of strength and agility, such as was the body of our Lord 
after his resurrection. 

7. The just, who are his children, sanctified by his grace, 



86 THE THIRD EEADER. 

united and made one with him by faith, shall also rise like 
unto himself ; Jesus Christ shall transform their mean and 
abject bodies, and render them like unto to his own — glorious 
and impassible. 

8. The body, which has had its share in the'good done by 
the soul while they were joined together, shall be a sharer also 
in its happiness. The wicked shall, indeed, rise again, but 
their bodies shall have none of these glorious qualities ; they 
shall arise, but only to be given up to torments endless in their 
duration, and inconceivable in their greatness. 

9. " All the multitude of those who sleep in the dust of the 
earth," says one of the prophets, "shall awake, some for life 
eternal, and others for endless ignominy and disgrace." 

What a spectacle shall then meet our eyes ! what sentiments 
will arise in our hearts, when we hear the sound of the trum- 
pet, and when that dreadful voice shall echo over the earth, 
"Arise, ye dead I and come to judgment!" — when we shall 
see all mankind assemble, without any other distinction than 
that made by their own works ! 

10. In the reign of Antiochus, the seven young Machabees 
and their mother generously suffered the most cruel torments 
rather than violate the law of God, because they hoped in 
the resurrection. The first had his tongue cut out and the 
skm torn off his head, and he being still alive he was cast into 
a caldron over a huge fire. The second, when expiring, said 
to the Mug : "You now put us to death ; but the Buler of 
the world shall one day raise us up to hfe everlasting." 

11. The thhd said with confidence : "I have received these 
members from Heaven, but I now hold them as nothing in 
defence of the laws of God, because I hope that they shall 
be one day restored to me." The fourth spoke in these terms : 
"It is letter for us to be slain for obeying God, than to pre- 
serve our lives by disobeying him ; we hope that in the resur- 
rection, God will render glorious these bodies which we re- 
ceived from him." 

12. The others manifested similar courage and fortitude. 
Nevertheless, the youngest still remained ; and Antiochus tried 
to shake his purpose by caresses and the liope of reward ; he 



A STOEY OF A MONK. 



87 



also sent him to his mother, hoping that she would persuade 
him to sacrifice to the idols 

13. Bat that generous mother said to her son : '' Look up 
to heaven ! raise thine eyes to God, who hath created all 
things, and thou shalt not fear these torments, but will follow 
thy brethren to death ! " Antiochus, more than ever enraged, 
poured out all his wrath on the boy, and caused the mother 
to undergo the same torments as her sons. 



33. A Story of a Monk. 



Monk, a member of a religious 
commmiity of men. 

Clois'ter, a convent or mon- 
astery inhabited by nmis or 
monks. 

Ab'bot, the head of a commu- 
nity of monks. 



Stu'di-ous, given to books or 

learning. 
Chron'i-cle, to record, to 

write down. 
Cru'ci-fix, an image of our 

Saviour's body fastened to 

a cross. 




MA!N*Y years ago, there dwelt in a cloister a monk 
named Urban, who was remarkable for an earnest and 
devout frame of mind beyond his fellows, and was therefore 
intrusted with the key of the convent library. He was a 



88 THE THIRD EEADER. 

careful guardian of its contents, and, besides, a studious reader 
of its learned and sacred volumes. One day he read in the 
Epistles of St. Peter the words, "One day is with the Lord 
as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day ; " and 
this saying seemed impossible in his eyes, so that he spent 
many an hour in musing over it. 

2. Then one morning it happened that the monk descended 
from the library into the cloister garden, and there he saw a 
little bird perched on the bough of a tree, singing sweetly, like 
a nightingale. The bird did not move as the monk approached 
her, till he came quite close, and then she flew to another bough, 
and again another, as the monk pursued her. Still singing the 
same sweet song, the nightingale flew on ; and the monk, en- 
tranced by the sound, followed her out of the garden into the 
wide world. 

3. At last he stopped, and turned back to the cloister ; but 
every thing seemed changed to him. Every thing had become 
larger, more beautiful, and older, — the buildings, the garden ; 
and in the place of the low, humble cloister church, a lofty 
minster with three towers reared its head to the sky. This 
seemed very strange to the monk, indeed marvellous ; but he 
walked on to the cloister gate and timidly rang the bell. A 
porter entirely unknown to him answered his summons, and 
drew back in amazement when he saw the monk. 

4. The latter went in, and wandered through the church, 
gazing with astonishment on memorial stones which he never 
remembered to have seen before. Presently the brethren of 
the cloister entered the church ; but all retreated when they 
saw the strange figure of the monk. The abbot only (but not 
liis abbot) stopped, and stretching a crucifix before him, ex- 
claimed, " In the name of Christ, who art thou, spu'it or mor- 
tal ? And what dost thou seek here, coming from the dead 
among us, the living ? " 

5. The monk, trembling and tottering like an old man, cast 
his eyes to the ground, and for the first time became aware 
that a long silvery beard descended from his chin over his 
girdle, to which was still suspended the key of the library. 
To the monks around the stranger seemed some marvellous 



THE DILATORY SCHOLAR. 89 

appearance ; and, with a mixture of awe and admiration, they 
led him to the chair of the abbot. There he gave to a young 
monk the key of the library, who opened it, and brought out a 
chronicle wherein it was written, that three hundred years ago 
the monk Urban had disappeared, and no one knew whither 
he had gone. 

6. "Ah, bird of the forest, was it then thy song?" said the 
monk Urban, with a sigh. "I followed thee for scarce three 
minutes, listening to thy notes, and yet three hundred years 
have passed away I Thou hast sung to me the song of eter- 
nity which I could never before learn. Now I know it ; and, 
dust myself, I pray to God kneeling in the dust." With these 
words he^ank to the ground, and his spirit ascended to heaven. 



34. The Dilatory Scholar. 



To Lin'ger, to delay, to be dil- 
atory. 
To Pro-test', to declare. 



Satch'el, a little bag used by 

schoolboys. 
At'las, a book of maps. 



Pronounce distinctly. Do not say breakin for breaking ; noihin for 
nothing ; playin for playing. 



^•0 



H ! where is my hat ? it is taken away, 
And my shoestrings are all in a knot ! 
I can't find a thing where it should be to-day, 
Though I've hunted in every spot. 



2. My slate and my pencil nowhere can be found, 

Though I placed them as safe as could be ; 
While my books and my maps are all scatter'd around, 
And hop about just like a flea. 

3. Do, Rachel, just look for my atlas up-stairs ; 

My Yirgil is somewhere there, too ; 
And, sister, brush down these troublesome hau^s, — 
And, brother, just fasten my shoe. 



90 THE THIRD EEADER. 

4. And, mother, beg father to write an excuse ; 
But stop — he will only say "No," 
And go on with a smile and keep reading the news, 
While every thing bothers me so. 




5. My satchel is heavy and ready to fall ; 

This old pop-gun is breaking my map ; 
I'll have nothing to do with the pop-gun or ball,- 
There's no playing for such a poor chap ! 

6. The town-clock will strike in a minute, I fear ; 

Then away to the foot I must sink : — 
There, look at my history, tumbled down here I 
And my algebra cover'd with ink ! 



35. Spanish Evening Hymn. 

Wea'ry, tired, fatigued. Watch-fire, a fire used as a signal. 

Sound the aspirated h. Do not say sailor zim for sailorh hymn ; from 
iz for from his; fountim sealing for fount unsealing. 

1. "jl.T OTHER ! now let prayer and music, 
lu. Meet in love on earth and sea ! 
Now, sweet mother ! may the weary, 
Turn from this cold world to thee ! 



CHBIST STILLING THE TEMPEST. M 

2. From the wide and restless waters, 

Hear the sailor's hymn arise ; 
From his watch-fire 'mid the mountains, 
Lo ! to thee the shepherd cries I 

3. Yet, when thus full hearts find voices, 

If o'erburden'd souls there be, 
Dark and silent in their anguish, 
Aid those captives, set them free ! 

4. Touch them, every fount unsealing, 

Where the frozen tears lie deep ; 
Thou, the mother of all sorrows, 
Aid, oh ! aid to pray and weep ! 



36. Christ Stilling the Tempest. 

" But the ship was now in the midst of the sea, tossed with 
waves ; for the wind was contrary." — llaithew xiv. 24. 

Bil'lows, waves. I Right'e-ous, just, upright. 

Breath'less, out of breath. I Man'dates, commands. 

Pronounce each word distinctly. Do not say rollin 'igJi an' dark for 
rolling high and dark. 

1. Tj^EAR was within the tossing bark, * 
J- When stormy winds grew loud ; 
And waves came rolling high and dark, 

And the tall mast was bow'd. 

2. And men stood breathless in their dread, 

And baffled in their skill — 
But One was there, who rose and said 
To the wild sea, ''Be still I" 

3. And the wind ceased — it ceased ! — that word 

Pass'd through the gloomy sky ; 
The troubled billows knew their Lord, 
And sank beneath his eye. 



■92 



THE THIRD KEADER. 



4. And slumber settled on the deep, 
And silence on the blast, 
As when the righteous fall asleep. 
When death's fierce throes are past. 

6. Thou that didst rule the angry hour, 
And tame the tempest's mood — 
Oh ! send thy spirit forth in power, 
O'er our dark souls to brood ! 

6. Thou that didst bow the billow's pride ! 
Thy mandates to fulfil — 
Speak, speak, to passion's raging tide, 
Speak and say — " Peace, be still 1" 



37. Holiday Children. 



Christ'mas, the day our Sa- 
viour was born. 

Mu-se'um, a collection of cu- 
riosities. 



CoAx'iNG-LY, flatteringly. 
Scutch'eon, the ground on 

which a coat of arms is 

painted. 



ONE of the most pleasing sights at this festive season, is the 
group of boys and girls returned from school. Go where 
you will, a cluster of their joyous, chubby faces presents them- 
selves to our notice. In the streets, or elsewhere, our elbows 
are constantly assailed by some eager urchin whose eyes just 
peep beneath to get a nearer view. 

2. I am more delighted in watching the vivacious workings 
of their ingenuous countenances at these Christmas shows, 
than at the sights themselves. 

3. From the first joyous huzzas, and loud-blown horns which 
announce their arrival, to the faint attempts at similar mii'th 
on their return, I am interested in these youngsters. 

4. Observe the line of chaises with their swarm-like loads 
hurrying to tender and exulting parents, the sickly to be cher- 



HOLIDAY CHILDKEN. 93 

ished, the strong to be amused ; in a few mornings you shall 
see them, new clothes, warm gloves, gathering around their 
mother at every toy-shop, claiming the promised bat, hoop, 
top, or marbles ; mark her kind smile at then* ecstasies ; her 
prudent shake of the head at their numerous demands ; her 
gradual yielding as they coaxingly drag her in ; her patience 
with their whims and clamor while they turn and toss over 
the playthings, as now a sword, and now a hoop is their 
choice, and, hke their elders, the possession of one bauble does 
but make them sigh for another. 

5. Yiew the fond father, his pet little girl by the hand, his 
boys walking before, on whom his proud eye rests, while am- 
bitious views float over his mmd for them, and make him but 
half attentive to their repeated inquiries ; while at the museum 
or the picture-gallery, his explanations are interrupted by the 
rapture of discovering that his children are already well ac- 
quainted with the different subjects exhibited. 

6. At no season of the year are their holidays so replete 
with pleasures ; the expected Christmas-box fi'om grand-papa 
and grand-mamma ; plum-pudding and snap-dragon, with 
bhndman's buff and forfeits ; perhaps to witness a juvenile 
play rehearsed and ranted ; galantee-show and drawing for 
twelfth-cake ; besides Christmas gambols in abundance, new 
and old. 

T. Even the poor charity-boy at this season feels a transient 
glow of cheerfulness, as with pale blue face, frost-nipped hands, 
and thin, scant clothes, from door to door he tunidly displays 
the unblotted scutcheon of his graphic talents, and feels that 
the pence bestowed are his own, and that for once in his life 
he may taste the often-desired tart, or spin a top which no one 
can snatch from him in capricious tyranny. 



PART SECOND. 



A WOED TO TEACHEES. 

We have deemed it best to discontimie tlie spelling and 
defining lessons at the commencement of the articles, but we 
cannot too strongly recommend all teachers to devote a por- 
tion of every day to the orthography and definition of a 
certain number of words contained in the reading lesson. 

Let the pupils spell and explain the words at the head of 
each lesson before commencing to read. After the lesson is 
over, let the teacher du'ect them to close their books, and 
spell and define every word he may select. It may, then, be 
asked : how 'are children to learn the meaning of the words ? 
We answer, by being accustomed to give in then* oimi lan- 
guage, their own ideas of every unusual or important word 
which occurs in their reading lesson ; the teacher of course 
correcting them when wi'ong, and explaining, when necessary, 
the proper meaning of the term in question ; or referring them 
for this information to their dictionaries, which should always 
be at hand for this their legitimate use. 

Questions on the subject^ of the lesson should also be care- 
fully contmued. 



THE DREAM OF THE GRUSADER. 



m 



1. The Dream op the Crusader. 




96 THE THIRD READER. 

3. That cry went forth through Europe's reabns, 

From one end to the other ; 
The call was like the thunder's voice, 
That nought on earth can smother. 

4. And France's fairest chivalry ._^-^ 

Did mount at that loud call ; 
From Normandy unto Provence, 
None tarried ui his hall. 

6. Some came from the fast-flowing Loire 
And others from the Rhone, 
And some whose castles were upon 
The banks of the Garonne. 

6. One common badge they all do wear, 
A proud and holy crest, 
A blood-red cross, emblazon'd bright 
On each left arm and breast. 

t. Their banner is that blood-red cross, 
Upraised as for a sign. 
And animating all the host 
With thoughts of Palestme. 

8. And day by day they fought theh' way 

Still onwards from the sea, 
And charged upon the Infidel 
With dauntless constancy. 

9. And 'mid that host of noble knights 

Who from their homes had gone. 
There was not one more worthy than 
Anselm of Ribeaupont. 



THE DKEAM OF THE CRUSADER. 97 



2. The Dream of the Crusader — contintied, 

1 . One early morn, the sun as yet 

Was scarcely in the sky, 
He begg'd the priest to shrive him then, 
And make him fit to die. 

2. He wish'd to take the sacrament 

As soon as he was shriven, 
That he might dare to meet his Grod 
With hopes to be forgiven. 

3. Now all did marvel at his words, 

For he was fresh and well ; 
And why he deem'd that he should die, 
No mortal man could tell. 

4. But good Sir Anselm with grave mien 

Thus spake — " My race is run 1 
Ere yonder sun shall set again, 
Life's journey will be done. 

5. My friend, Ingolram of St. Pol, * 

Who fell at Ma'ra's fight, 

And whom we all lamented so, 

I've seen in the past night. 

6. This very night he came to me. 

And stood beside my bed ; 
^Twas not a dream — I was awake, 
And heard each word he said. 

T. I asked him, ' Whither comest thou, 
And why so bright and fair ? 
For thou wert kill'd at Maara, 
And we interred thee ther&.* 

8. He was so bright and beautiful. 
And mild each placid feature ; 

5 



98 THE THIRD EEADEB. 

He was not like a mortal man, 
But some angelic creatm'e. 

9. He answer'd me, ' I am so fair, 
And beautiful and bright, 
Because my dwelling shineth so 
With all-resplendent light. 

10. And this to me my God hath given, 

Because I served him well ; 
For laying down my life for him 
Against the Infidel. 

11. And it hath been reveal'd to me. 

That such a dwelling-place, 
But brighter still, awaiteth thee, 

Through God's great sovereign grace. 

12. And I am come to bring to thee 

These tidings glad and sweet ; 

Thy dwelling it is wondrous fair — 

To morrow there we meet !' " 

13. Again they went to fight their way 

Still onwards from the sea ; 
• They charged upon the Infidel 
With wonted constancy. 

14. The Paynim men advance again, 

To drive them to the sea. 
But on them rush'd the red-cross men 
With all their chivalry. 

15. And when the day's hard strife was o'er, 

The sun went down apace, 
The good Sir Anselm he was miss'd 
At his accustom'd place. 

16. They sought him on the battle-field, 

They found him 'midst the dead : 
'4. stone, by some huge engine hurl'd, 
Had struck him on the head. 



THE lord's PEAYER. 



99 




3. The Lord's Prayer. 



OUR Lord has himself taught us what we are to beg of 
God, and the order in which it is to be asked. He has 
even vouchsafed to draw up the petition which we are to pre- 
sent to the Father in his name, and to leave us an excellent 
form of prayer, which is thence called The Lord's Prayer. 
"Jesus Christ," says St. Cyprian, "among other salutary 
advices and precepts which he hath given to his people in 
order to guide them to salvation, has prescribed a formula of 
prayer, to the end that we may be the more readily heard by 
the Father, by addressing him in the very words which his 
Son hath taught us. 

2. " Let us, therefore, pray," adds this holy doctor, " as 
our master and our God hath directed us ; that prayer must be 
pleasing to God which comes from himself, and strikes his ear 
through the words of Christ ; let the Father recognize in our 
prayer the words of his divine Son. 

3. " Since Jesus Christ is our Advocate with his Father, let 



100 THE THIED EEADER. 

US make use of the very words of our Mediator ; lie assures 
us that the Father will grant whatever is asked in his name ; 
how much more willingly if asked, not only in his name, but 
in his own very words 1 " The Church, accordingly, makes 
continual use of that divine prayer ; by it she begins and ends 
all her offices ; she introduces it solemnly in the holy sacri- 
fice of the mass. The faithful should recite it daily, morning 
and evening, and recall it often to their minds through the 
course of the day. 

4. The Lord's Prayer is composed of a short preface, and 
seven petitions or requests, of which the three first relate to 
God, and the other four concern ourselves ; it contains all 
that we can desire and ask of God ; it is the rule by which 
we are to form our sentiments and our desires. We may, 
indeed, make use of other words in our prayers, but we are 
to ask nothing of God save what is contamed in this model ; 
any request that is not consistent with it would be unworthy 
a Christian, and could not be agreeable to God. 

6. The preface consists of these words : " Our Father, who 
art in heaven; " Jesus Christ has thrown into these few words 
all that is most capable of engaging God to hear us, and of 
inspiring within ourselves sentiments of respect, confidence, 
and love. 

6. We call God our Father, for so has Christ instructed 
us to do. God is indeed our father by creation, since he has 
g-iven us life, and formed us to his own image ; he is still more 
our father by the grace of our baptism, seeing that in Bap- 
tism he adopted us as his children in Christ Jesus. " Con- 
sider," says the Apostle St. John, "what love the Father has 
had for us, since he would have us called his children, and 
really be sol" "Because ye are children," adds St. Paul, 
"God has sent into your hearts the spirit of his Son, cry- 
ing '3Iy Father, 3fy Father/^" Oh, name full of sweet- 
ness and delight ! what love, what gratitude, and what con- 
fidence should it excite in your heart ! 

7. If it be true that God is your Father, can you fear that 
your prayer will be rejected when you remind hkn of a name 
by which he takes pleasure in hearing us address him ? What 



LEGEND OF THE INFANT JESUS. 101 

does he not grant to a child who prays to him, after he has 
received him into the number of his children by a grace which 
preceded his prayers and desires. 

8. Fear only that by your disobedience you may render 
yourself unworthy to be called the child of God ; that alone 
can obstruct the flow of his grace and the effect of your 
prayers. Each of us says, when addressing God : " Our 
Fafher^^ and not My Father, because having all the same 
Father, and expecting from him the same inheritance, we 
are not only to pray for ourselves, but for all the faithful, 
who are our brethren. By that we understand that it is not 
in our own name we pray, but in that of Jesus Christ, and in 
union with the whole body of his Chmxh, whose members we 
are. 

9. We add : " Who art in heaven, ^^ for although God is 
everywhere in his immensity, we nevertheless consider heaven 
as the throne of his glory ; it is in heaven that he puts forth 
all his magnificence, and reveals himself fully to his elect 
without the shadow of a cloud to obscure his brightness. 
-It is to heaven that we ourselves are called ; heaven is our 

country, and the inheritance destined for us by our Father. 
When we kneel, then, in prayer, let us raise our thoughts and 
our desires to heaven ; let us unite with the society of blessed 
spirits, and excite in our hearts the hope and the desire of 
possessmg God. 



4. Legend of the Infant Jesus. 

1. pOME, children, all whose joy it is 
^ To serve at holy mass, 

And hear what once, in days of faith, 
In England came to pass ! 

2. It chanced a priest was journeying 

Through dark and gloomy wood, 
And there, where few came passing by, 
A lonely chapel stood. 



102 THE THIRD READER. 

3. He stay'd his feet, that pilgrim priest, 

His morning mass to say, 
And put the sacred vestments on 
Which near the altar lay. 

4. But who shall serve the holy mass 

For all is silent here ? 
He kneels, and there in patience waits 
The peasant's hour of prayer. 

5. When lo I a child of wondrous grace, 

Before the altar steals. 
And down beside the lowly priest, 
The infant beauty kneels. 

6. He serves the mass ; his voice is sweet, 

Like distant music low, 
With downcast eye and ready hand. 
And footfall hush'd and slow. 

*I. " Et verbum caro factum est," 
He lingers till he hears, 
Then turning he to Mary's shrine, 
In glory disappears. 

8. So round the altar, children dear. 
Press gladly in God's name, 
For once to serve at holy mass, 
The Infant Jesus came. 



5. The Do-Nothings. 

THE Do-Nothings are a very numerous family : some mem- 
bers of it are found in all parts of the country ; and there 
are very few schools in which some of them are not in attend- 
ance as pupils. They are known by their slow and listless 
steps, their untidy appearancB, and the want of animation and 



THE DO-NOTHINGS. 103 

interest in their faces. They do not do any thing, whether 
work or play, with a hearty good-will. 

2. Their hair is apt to be in disorder ; their hands and faces 
are not always clean ; their clothes look as if they had been 
half put on. They are always in a hurry, and yet always 
behindhand. They are sometunes absent from school, and 
often tardy ; but for every neglect of duty they always have 
some sort of an excuse. 

3. A girl of this family gets up in the morning late, dresses 
herself in a hurry, and comes down-stairs a httle out of humor 
from the feeling that she has begun the day wrong. The 
•family breakfast is over, and she is obliged to take hers alone ; 
which does not improve her temper. She knows that she has 
a French lesson to learn before school ; but she is attracted 
by a new picture-book which had been brought home the day 
before for one of her little brothers, and she takes it up, mean- 
ing only to look over the pictures. But she becomes interest- 
ed in the story, turns over one leaf after another, and at last 
nine o'clock strikes before she is aware of it. 

4. She huddles on her shawl and bonnet, and hastens to 
school as fast as possible ; but she is late in spite of her hurry, 
and is marked for tardiness. It takes her some time to get 
seated at her desk, and to recover from the heat and flurry of 
coming to school so fast. She at first proposes to learn the 
French lesson, which she ought to have done at home ; but 
after studying a few moments, she finds some leaves missing 
from her dictionary. She tries to borrow one from a neigh- 
bor, but in vain ; so she becomes discouraged, and thinks she 
will do a few sums in arithmetic. 

5. So she takes out her slate, and begins to wash it ; spend- 
ing much more time in this process than is necessary. She 
tries a sum and cannot do it, and thinks it the fault of the 
pencil. So she proceeds to sharpen that with great delibera- 
tion, making everybody around her uneasy with the disagree- 
able, grating sound. When this operation is over, she looks 
at the clock, and sees that it will soon be time to recite in 
geography, of which she has not learned any thing. 

6. She puts up her sMe, pencfl, and arithmeticj, and t'akes 



104 THE THIKD READER. 

out her geography and atlas. By the time these are opened 
and spread before her, she hears a band of music in the 
street. Her seat is near the window, and she wastes some 
precious minutes in looking at the soldiers as they pass by. 
She has hardly made any progress in her study of geography 
when she is called up to recite. She knows very little of her 
lesson, gives wrong answers to the questions put to her, and 
gets a bad mark. 

7. Soon after this, the class in French to which she belongs 
goes up to recite. This lesson she has only half learned, and 
she blunders sadly when called upon to answer. She goes back 
to her desk in an unhappy state of mind, and takes up her 
arithmetic once more. But she feels dissatisfied with herself, 
and cannot fix her attention upon her task. She comes to the 
conclusion that she has got a headache, which is a very com- 
mon excuse with her, and that she cannot study. So she puts 
a cover upon one of her books, and writes a note to one of her 
young friends about going to a concert ; and when this is over 
the bell for dismissal rings. 

8. And this half day may be taken as a fair sample of the 
whole school-life of Miss Do-Nothing. It is a long succession 
of lessons half learned, of sums half done, of blotted copy- 
books, of absences and tardinesses, of wasted hours and neg- 
lected opportunities. Most of the annoyance which teachers 
suffer in the discharge of their duties, comes from boys and 
girls of this family. They have two seemingly opposite traits : 
they are always idle and yet always restless. They move 
about on their seats, and lean upon their desks in a great 
variety of postures. They talk with their fingers ; and keep 
up a constant whispering and buzzing with their lips, which 
disturbs scholars and teachers alike. 

9. The boys are very expert in catching flies, and moulding 
pieces of paper into the shape of boats or cocked hats. They 
draw figures upon their slates, and scribble upon the fly-leaves 
of their books. In summer they are afflicted with a constant 
thirst, and in winter their feet and hands are always cold. 
Both boys and gu-ls are apt to be troubled with drowsiness in 
ttre daytime ; and yet they are very reluctant to go to bed 



HEAUNa THE DAUGHTER OP JAIEUS. 105 

when the proper hour comes. They are fond of laying the 
fault of their own indolence upon the weather ; they would 
have learned their lesson if it had not been so hot, so cold, or 
so rainy. 

10. There is one remarkable peculiarity about this family: 
every boy and girl that chooses can leave it, and join the Do- 
Somethings ; the members of which are always glad to wel- 
come deserters from the Do-Nothings. The boys and girls of 
the Do-Something family are always busy, always cheerful ; 
working heartily when they work, and playing heartily when 
they play. They are neat in their appearance, and punctual 
in attendance upon school ; every thing is done in proper order, 
and yet nothing is hurried ; they are the joy of their parents, 
and the delight of their teachers. 

11. My young friends into whose hands this book may fall, 
to which of these two families do you belong? Remember 
that the usefulness and happiness of your whole hves depends 
upon the answer to this question. No one can be truly happy 
who is not useful ; and no one can be useful who is idle, care- 
less, and negligent. 



6. Healing the Daughter of Jairus. 

1. Tj^RESHLY the cool breath of the coming eve 
-L Stole through the lattice, and the dying girl 
Felt it upon her forehead. She had lain 

Since the hot noontide in a breathless trance — • 
Her thin, pale fingers clasped within the hand 
Of the heart-broken Ruler, and her breast, 
Like the dead marble, white and motionless. 

2. The shadow of a leaf lay on her lips, 
And, as it stirr'd with the awak'ning wind, 
The dark lids lifted from her languid eyes, 
And her slight fingers moved, and heavily 
She turn'd upon her pillow. He was there— 
The same loved tireless watcher, and she look'(| 
Into his face until her sight grew dim - 

6* 



106 



THE THIRD READER. 



Willi the fast-falling tears ; and, with a sigh 
Of tremulous weakness murmuring his name, 
She gently drew his hand upon her lips. 
And kiss'd it as she wept. The old man sunk 
Upon his knees, and in the drapery 
Of the rich curtains buried up his face ; 
And when the twihght fell, the silken folds 
Stur'd with his prayer, but the shght hand he held 




Had ceased its pressure — and he could not hear, 
In the dead, utter silence, that a breath 
Came through her nostrils — and her temples gave 
To his nice touch no pulse — and, at her mouth, 
He held the lightest curl that on her neck 
Lay with a mocking beauty, and his gaze 
Ached with its deathly stillness. 



HEALma THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS. 107 

* * * 5fS * * 

3. All was still. 
The echoing vestibule gave back the shde 
Of their loose sandals, and the arrowy beam 
Of moonlight, slanting to the marble floor, 
Lay like a spell of silence in the rooms, 

As Jairus led them on. With hushing steps 
He trod the winding stair ; but e'er he touch'd 
The lachet, from within a whisper came, 
" Trouble the Master notr—for she is dead!" 
And his faint hand fell nerveless at his side, 
And his steps falter'd, and his broken voice 
Choked in its utterance ; — but a gentle hand 
Was laid upon his arm, and in his ear 
The Saviour's voice sank thrillingly and low, 
" She is not dead — but sleepeth." 

4. Like a form 

Of matchless sculpture in her sleep she lay — 
The linen vesture folded on her breast, 
And over it her white transparent hands, 
The blood still rosy in their tapering nails. 
A line of pearl ran through her parted lips, 
And in her nostrils spiritually thin, 
The breathing curve was mockingly like life ; 
And round beneath the faintly-tinted skm 
Ran the light branches of the azure veins ; 
And on her cheek the jet lash overlay. 
Matching the arches pencil'd on her brow. 
6. Her hair had been unbound, and falling loose 
Upon her pillow, hid her small round ears 
In curls of glossy blackness, and about 
Her polish'd neck, scarce touching it, they hung 
Like airy shadows floating as they slept, 
'Twas heavenly beautiful. The Saviour raised 
Her hand from off her bosom, and spread out 
The snowy fingers in his palm, and said, 
"Maiden! Arise ! "—^Siud suddenly a flush 



108 THE THIBD REABEE. 

Shot o'er her forehead, and along her hps 
And through her cheek the ralUed color ran ; 
And the still outline of her graceful form 
Stirr'd in the linen vesture ; and she clasp'd 
The Saviour's hand, and fixing her dark eyes 
Full on his beamuig countenance — arose 1 



7. St. Philip Neei and the Youth. 

ST. PhiUp Neri, as old readings say. 
Met a young stranger in Rome's streets one day ; 
And being ever courteously inchned 
To give young folks a sober turn of mind, 
He fell into discourse with him ; and thus 
The dialogue they held comes down to us. 

St. Tell me what brings you, gentle youth, to Rome ? 

Y. To make myself a scholar, sir, I come. 

St. And, when you are one, what do you intend ? 

Y. To be a priest, I hope, sir, in the end. 

St Suppose it is so— what have you next in view ? 

Y. That I may get to be a canon too. 

St. Well ; and how then ? 

Y. Why, then, for aught I know, 

I may be made a bishop. 

St. Be it so— 

What then ? 

Y. Why, cardinal's a high degree — 

And yet my lot it possibly raay be. 

St. Suppose it was, what then ? 

Y. Why, who pan say 

But I've a chance of being pope one day ? 

St. Well, having worn the mitre and red hat, 
And triple crown, what follows after that ? 

Y. Nay, there is nothing further, to be sure 
Upon this earth that wishing can procure ; 
When I've enjoy'd a dignity so high, 
As long as God shall please, then, I must die. 



CONFIKMATION. 109 

St. What, must you die, fond youth ? and at the best 
But wish, and hope, and may be all the rest ! 
Take my advice — whatever may betide. 
For that which must be, first of all provide ; 
Then think of that which may be, and indeed. 
When well prepared, who knows what may succeed ? 
But you may be, as you are pleased to hope, 
Priest, canon, bishop, cardinal, and pope. 



8. CONFIEMATION. 



OUR young readers have learned from their little catechism, 
that confirmation is the sacrament by which they are ele- 
vated to the dignity of soldiers of Jesus Christ ; that, as by 
baptism they were made children of God, so by confirmation 
their names are inscribed in the army of the faithful followers 
of our divine Lord, and they receive strength to battle against 
sin, the world, and the devil, which they had so solemnly re- 
nounced at the baptismal font. 

2. Confirmation is conferred by a bishop, who first imposes 
his hands on those to be confirmed, invoking upon them the 
Holy Ghost, with his sevenfold gifts ; he then signs the fore- 
head of each with chrism in the form of the cross, saying at 
the same time : "I sign thee with the sign of the cross ; I 
confirm thee with the chrism of salvation, in the name of the 
Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen." 

3. The bishop concludes the ceremony by giving the person 
confirmed a shght blow on the cheek, to signify that as fol- 
lowers of Jesus Christ, we must bear trials and persecutions 
for his sake. 

4. The chrism used in confirmation, is an ointment made of 
the oil of cloves and balm. The oil signifies the effect of this 
holy sacrament, namely, spiritual strength and purity of heart, 
and preservation from the rust of sin ; and the sweetness of 
balm, the odor of a good and vu-tuous life. 

5. Confirmatioij c^n only be received once, hence it is ^ 



110 THE THIRD READER. 

great misfortune not to receive it with the proper dispositions. 
Formerly it was the custom to confirm children immediately 
after baptism, but now it is generally delayed until after they 
have made their first communion. It is not a sacrament abso- 
lutely necessary for salvation, but it would be a grievous sin to' 
omit receiving it through contempt or neglect. 

6. Children ought to look forward with a longing desire to 
the moment when they shall have the happiness to receive this 
holy sacrament, and daily ask of Almighty God the grace to 
receive it worthily, and as often resolve to live up to the obli- 
gations it imposes, when they shall have received it. 



9. Birds in Summer. 

1. TT^W pleasant the life of a bird must be, 
-i-L FUtting about in each leafy tree ; 

In the leafy trees so broad and tall, 

Like a green and beautifal palace hall, 

With its airy chambers, light and boon,* 

That open to sun, and stars, and moon ; 

That open unto the bright blue sky, 

And the frolicsome winds as they wander by I 

2. They have left their nests on the forest bough ; 
Those homes of delight they need not now ; 
And the young and the old they wander out, 
And traverse their green world round about ; 
And hark 1 at the top of this leafy hall. 
How one to the other in love they call 1 

" Come up ! come up 1" they seem to say, 
"Where the topmost twigs in the breezes sway. 

3. " Come up, come up ! for the world is fair 
Where the merry leaves dance in the summer air." 

*Bom, pleasant. 



BIRDS IN SUMMER. 



Ill 



And the birds below give back the cry, 
"We come, we come to the branches high." 
How pleasant the hves of the bu'ds must be, 
Living in love in a leafy tree ! 
And away through the air what joy to go, 
And to look on the green, bright earth below I 




4. How pleasant the Hfe of a bird must be, 
Skimming about on the breezy sea ; 
Cresting the billows like silvery foam. 
Then wheeling away to its cliff-built home ! 
"What joy it must be to sail, upborne 
By a strong, free wing, through the rosy morn I 
To meet the young sun face to face, 
And pierce like a shaft the boundless space ; — 



5. To pass through the bowers of the silver cloud ; 
To sing in the thunder halls aloud ; 



112 THE THIRD EEADEE. 

To spread out the wings for a wild, free flight 
With the upper-cloud winds, — Oh, what dehght 
Oh, what would I give, hke a bird, to go 
Right on through the arch of the sun-lit bow, 
And see how the water-di'ops are kiss'd 
Into green, and yellow, and amethyst I 

6. How pleasant the life of a bird must be, 
Wherever it hsteth there to flee ; . 

To go when a joyfal fancy calls. 
Dashing adown 'mong the waterfalls ; 
Then to wheel about with their mates at play, 
Above, and below, and among the spray, 
Hither and thither, with screams as wild 
As the laughing mirth of a rosy child ! 

t. What joy it must be, like a living breeze. 
To flutter about 'mid the flowermg trees ; 
Lightly to soar, and to see beneath 
The wastes of the blossoming purple heath, 
And the yellow fiirze, like fields of gold. 
That gladden'd some fairy region old ! 
On mountain tops, on the billowy sea, 
On tha leafy stems of the forest tree, 
How pleasant the life of a bird must be I 



10. The Childe:^n and the Infant Jesus. 

AT the time that the celebrated Egidius was provincial of 
Spain, he gave the habit of the order to a young Gascon 
named Bernard, who was received into the convent of Santa- 
rem, and became distinguished among that saintly community 
for the holy simpKcity of his hfe. 

2. The circumstances attending his death, attested by al- 
most all the writers on the history of the order, are of pecuhar 
beauty. Bernard filled the office of sacristan in the convent 



THE CHILDBEN AND THE INFANT J:ESUS.' 113 

of Santarem ; an office, the exercise of which was peculiarly 
delightful to him, from the many opportunities it gave him of 
indulging his devotion unseen by any one but his Lord, whom 
he loved to honor by a reverent care of the altar and every 
thing belonging to the Divine mysteries. Besides this employ- 
ment, his spare time was occupied in the education of two 
children, the sons of a neighboring gentleman, who sent them 
every day to the convent, where they remained until evening, 
only sleeping at their father's house. 

3. These two boys were permitted to wear the novices' 
habit of the Friars-Preachers, being probably destined for the 
order, although not as yet received into the community ; and 
their innocence and goodness of heart had rendered them pe- 
culiarly dear to Blessed Bernard. It was his custom, when 
busy in the sacristy, to allow them to remain in a chapel, then 
dedicated to the Holy Kings, on the right of the high altar, 
where they used to sit on the altar-steps, reading or writing 
their exercises ; spending their time happily until their master's 
return. Here also they were accustomed to spread out the 
dinners which they brought with them from home, which they 
took together in the same place, as soon as they had finished 
their daily lessons. 

4. On the altar of this chapel, which was seldom used for 
the purpose of saying mass, there was an image of the Blessed 
Yirgin, holding her Divine Son in her arms ; and the two 
children came to look on the Holy Infant almost as a com- 
panion, and were wont to talk to him, as he seemed to look 
down on them from his mother's arms, with the simple fa- 
miharity of their age. One day, as they thus sat on the altar- 
steps, one of them raised his eyes to the image of the little 
Jesus that was just above him, and said, "Beautiful child, 
how is it you never take any dinner as we do, but always re- 
main without moving all day long ? Come down and eat some 
dinner with us, — we will give it to you with all our hearts." 

5. And it pleased God to reward the innocence and simple 
faith of the children by a wonderful miracle ; for the carved 
form of the holy child became radiant with life, and coming 
down from his holy mother's arms, he sat with them on the 



114 THE THIRD EEADEE. 

ground before the altar, and took some of their dinifer with 
them. Nor need we wonder at so great a condescension, re- 
membering how he came uninvited to be a guest with Zaccheus 
who was a sinner, and that the two whom he now consented 
to treat as his hosts, were clothed in that pure robe of bap- 
tismal innocence which makes us worthy to receive him under 
our roof. 

6. Now this happened more than once, so that the neglected 
chapel became to these two children full of the joy of heaven ; 
and by daily converse with their Divine Lord they grew in such 
fervent love towards him, that they wearied for the hour 
when then might have him with them ; caring for nothing else 
than this sweet and familiar intercourse with the Lord of 
heaven. And their parents perceived a change in them, and 
how their only pleasure was in hastening to the convent, as if 
it contained a secret source of happiness which had not been 
revealed before. They therefore questioned them closely ; and 
the children told them every thing without reserve. 

T. But the tale seemed to those who listened, nothing but 
an idle invention, or perhaps an artifice in order to obtain a 
larger quantity of food ; and they therefore took no notice of 
what they said beyond reproving them for their folly. 

But when they repeated the same story to Bernard, he 
listened with very different feelings ; for he knew the holy 
hearts of his two httle disciples ; and he felt, moreover, that 
there was nothing unworthy of behef in the fact that he who, 
being God, became a little child, should condescend to give a 
mark of favor to those of whom he himself has said, that 
"of such is the kingdom of heaven." When, therefore, after 
many inquiries, he had satisfied himself of the truth of the tale, 
he bade them give glory to God for his goodness ; and then 
considered whether there was no way in which these circum- 
stances might be made to serve yet further to the happiness 
and spiritual advancement of his pupils. 

8. And hearing how they in then- childish way expressed a 
wonder that, after they had so often invited the child to eat 
some of their dinner, he had never brought any food with him 
to share with them> he bade them, the next time he cam^, ask 



THE CHILDREN AND THE INFANT JESUS. 115 

him how this was, and whether he would not ask them some 
day to dine with him in his Father's house. The boys were 
dehghted with this idea ; and they failed not to do as they 
were directed the next time that they were alone in the chapel. 
Then the child smiled on them graciously, and said, ''What 
you say is very just ; within three days I invite you to a ban- 
quet in my Father's house : " and with this answer they re- 
turned full of joy to their master. 

9. He well knew the meaning of this invitation ; the change 
that had gradually appeared in his two beloved disciples had 
not been unmarked by him ; he had seen them, as it were 
before their time, growing ripe for heaven ; and he understood 
that it was the Divine pleasure, after thus training them for 
heaven in a marvellous way, that they should be transplanted to 
the angelic company, before their hearts had once been toucked 
by the knowledge of sin or the contamination of the world. 

10. Yet he sighed to think that thej should thus be granted 
to pass to Christ in their happy infancy, while he, who had 
grown old in the spiritual warfare, was to be l«ft behind ; and 
resolving to make one more trial of the condencension which 
had be^n so bounteously lavished on his pupils, he bade them 
go back to the chapel, and tell the Divine child that since they 
wore the habit of the order, it was necessary for them to ob- 
serve the rules ; and that it was never permitted for novices to 
accept of any invitation, or to go to the house of any person, 
except in their master's company. "Return, then, to your 
master," said the Holy Child, "and bid him be of the com- 
pany ; and on Thursday morning I will receive you all three 
together in my Father's house." 

11. Bernard's heart bounded with emotion ^hen he heard 
these words. It was then the first of the Rogation days, and 
the day which had been appointed was therefore Ascension 
day. He made every arrangement as for his approaching 
death, and obtained leave on that day to say his last mass, — 
his two disciples serving during the celebration, and receiving 
communion from his hands. Doubtless it would be hard for 
us to realize his feelings of devout and joyful expeetation 
during those moments. 



116 THE THIED BEADEE. 

12. And when mass was ended, he knelt before the same 
altar with the children, one on either side, and all three com- 
mended their souls to God, as though they knew their last 
hour was come, and the altar-steps were to be their deathbed. 
And it was even so. An hour after, some of the brethren 
found them still kneeling thus before the altar, Bernard vested 
as for mass, and the two boys in their serving-robes. 

13. But they were quite dead : their eyes were closed, and 
their faces wore a smile of most sweet tranquillity ; and it was 
evident that there had been no death-struggle, but that their 
souls had passed to the presence of God while in the very act 
of prayer. The were buried in the chapel of the Holy Kings, 
which had been the scene of so many of our Lord's visits to 
the two children ; and a picture was hung over the spot, rep- 
resenting them seated on the altar-step, with the Divine child 
between them. 

14. This was the only moniiment to mark the place of their 
burial ; and in the course of years the memory of it was lost, 
and the chapel became disused and neglected as before. One 
of the succeeding priors of the convent, wishing to find some 
further record of the ancient tradition, dug down beneath the 
spot indicated by the picture ; taking care to have two apos- 
tohc notaries and the vicar-general of the diocese present, to- 
gether with other authorities of distinction and credit. 

15. At a little distance beneath the surface a carved stone 
sarcophagus was found, which being opened, the church was 
immediately filled with an odor of surpassing sweetness ; and 
on removing the clothes that lay on the top, the remains of 
three bodies were discovered, which they could not doubt were 
those of Blessed Bernard and his novices ; for the bones of 
the middle skeleton were the size of a grown man, while those 
on either side were small and delicate. 

16. From the great number of years that had passed, most 
of them were reduced to mere dust ; but some portions of 
white cloth showed that they had been buried in the habit of 
the order. The memory of this history has been preserved 
even up to our own times ; for from the time of this solemn 
translaiion of their bodies, a mass of the ascension was cele- 



THE GEAYE OF FATHER MARQUETTE. 117 

brated every Thursday, in thanksgiving for the graces granted 
to them, and a confraternity of the Infant Jesus established, 
to whom the custody of the ancient image was intrusted. 
Their death is supposed by Sosa to have taken place about 
the year 127 1. 



11. The Grave of Father Marquette. 



^T 



HERE is a wild and lonely dell, 
Far in the wooded West, 
Where never summer's sunbeam fell 

To break its long, lone rest. 
Where never blast of winter swept, 

To ruffle or to chill. 
The calm, pellucid lake that slept, 

O'erhung with rock and hill. 

2. A woodland scene by hills inclosed, 

By rocky barriers curb'd, 
Where shade and silence have reposed, 

For ages undisturb'd. 
Unless when some dark Indian maid, 

Or prophet old and gray, 
Have hied them to the solemn shade, 
. To weep alone or pray. 

3. One morn, the boatman's bugl-e note 

Was heard within the dell, 
And o'er the blue waves seem'd to float, 

Like some unearthly swell. 
A skiff appears, by rowers stout 

Urged swiftly o'er the tide, 
An aged man sat wrapp'd in thought. 

Who seem'd the helm to guide. 

4. He was a holy Capuchin, 

Thin locks were on his brow ; 



118 THE THIKD READER. 

His eye, that bright and bold had been, 
With age was darken'd now. 

From distant lands, beyond the sea, 
The aged pilgrim came, 

To combat base idolatry, 
And spread the holy name. 

6. From tribe to tribe the good man went, 

The sacred cross he bore. 
And savage men on slaughters bent. 

Would hsten and adore. 
But worn with age, his mission done. 

Earth had for him no tie. 
He had no further wish, save one, — 

To hie him home and die. 

6. The oarsman spoke, " Let's not delay, 

Good father, ii^ this dell ; 
'Tis here that savage legends say, 

Their sinless spirits dwell. 
The hallow'd foot of prophet sere, 

Or pure and spotless maid, 
May only dare to venture here. 

When night has spread her shade." 

t. " Dispel, my son, thy groundless fear, 

And let thy heart be bold. 
For see, upon my breast I bear, 

The consecrated gold. 
The blessed cross that long hath been 

Companion of my path, 
Preserved me in the tempest's din, 

Or stay'd the heathen's wrath, 

8. " Shall guard us from the threaten'd harm. 
What form soe'er it take. 
The hurricane, or savage arm, 
Or spirit of the lake.'^ 



THE GRAVE OF FATHER MARQUETTE. 119 

" But father, shall we never cease, 

Through savage wilds to roam ? 
My heart is yearning for the peace, 

That smiles for us at home. 

9. "We've traced the river of the West, 

From sea to fountain-head, 
And sail'd o'er broad Superior's breast, 

By wild adventure led. 
We've slept beneath the cypress shade, 

Where noisome reptile lay, 
We've chased the panther to his bed, 

And heard the grim wolf bay. 

10. "And now for sunny France we sigh, 

For quiet and for home ; 
Then bid us pass the valley by. 

Where only spirits roam." 
" Repine not, son ! old age is slow. 

And feeble feet are mine ; 
This moment to my home I go. 

And thou shalt go to thine. 

11. " But ere I quit this vale of death, 

For realms more bright and fair. 
On yon green shore my feeble breath, 

Would rise to Heaven in prayer. 
Then high on yonder headland's brow. 

The holy altar raise ; 
Uprear the cross, and let us bow 

With humble hearts in praise." 

12. Thus said, the cross was soon uprear'd, 

On that lone, heathen shore. 
Where never Christian voice was heard 

In prayer to God before. 
The old man knelt, his head was bare, 

His arms cross'd on his breast ; 



120 THE THIBD KEADEB. 

He pray'd, but none could hear the prayer 
His withered lips expressed. 

13. He ceased, they raised the holy man, 

Then gazed in silent dread, 
Chill through each vein the life-blood ran, — ■ 

The pilgrim's soul had fled. 
In silence pray'd each voyager. 

Then* beads they counted o'er, 
Then made a hasty sepulchre. 

On that lone ravine's shore. 

14. Beside the altar where he knelt. 

And where the Lord released 
His spirit from its pilgrimage, 

They laid the holy priest. 
In fear and haste, a brief adieu 

The wondering boatmen take, 
Then rapidly their course pursue 

Across the lonely lake. 

15. In after years, when bolder men 

The vale of spirits sought, 
O'er many a wild and wooded glen : 

They roam'd, but found it not. 
We only know that such a priest 

There was, and thus he fell, 
But where his saintly rehcs rest, 

No living man can tell. 



12. Abbaham. 



ISMAEL'S banishment restored peace to Abraham's family, 
and left Isaac the one and sole heir of his father's fortune. 
Isaac was growing up in the full promise of early youth, when 
God was pleased to make trial of Abraham's faith, in a point 



ABRAHAM. 



121 



the most decisive ; he ordered him to take that very Isaac, his 
beloved son, and to offer him in sacrifice upon the mountain he 
would show him. 




2. Abraham had always looked upon his son as a special 
gift from God, and, therefore, did not hesitate a single moment 
to give him back in the manner that God required. He had 
been assured that his posterity should one day become as nu- 
merous as the sands upon the shore, or as the stars in heaven. 



122 THE THIRD READER. 

Steadfast, therefore, in that belief, and unshaken in his hope, 
Abraham stifled every doubt he might otherwise have formed 
of the repeated promises God had made him ; he rose early in 
the morning, and keeping his secret to himself, went silently 
out with Isaac and two servants. 

3. He carried with him the wood necessary to consume the 
holocaust, and directed his way towards the mountain. Fixed 
in his resolution, he went on for two days, and on the third 
came in sight of the destined place of sacrifice. He told his 
servants to remain at the bottom of the hill, while he with his 
son should go up to adore their God. Inflexible to the sug- 
gestions of flesh and blood, he took in. his hand the fire and 
the sword, and gave to his son the wood that was intended 
for the sacred fire. 

4. Charged with his load, Isaac proceeded up the hill, a 
very lively figure of him who was afterwards to ascend the 
mount of Calvary loaded with a cross, on which he was to 
consummate the great work of our redemption. As they were 
going on, Isaac asked his father where the victim was ? The 
question was too interesting not to awaken all the tenderness 
of a father's love in such circumstances ; Abraham dissembled 
the secret feelings of his heart, and with a manly firmness an- 
swered, that God would provide the victim. 

5. Being come to the appointed spot, he erected an altar, 
and laid the wood in order upon it ; then having bound and 
placed his son Isaac thereon, he took up the sword, and 
stretched out his hand to strike. The firm obedience of the 
father, and the humble submission of the son, were all that 
God required of them. An angel at that mopent was dis- 
patched to stop the father's arm, and to assure him that God 
was satisfied with the readiness of his obedience. The angel 
called aloud on Abraham ; Abraham answered the voice, and 
looking round saw a ram with his horns entangled amid the 
brambles, which he took and offered as a holocaust for his son. 

6. This history, which is so mysterious, and in almost every 
circumstance so resembling the stations of our Saviour's pas- 
sion, is, according to the holy fathers, an instruction for all 
|)arents to consult the will and implore the aid of God, before 



HOHENLINDEN. 123 

they presume to dispose of their children. Nothing loss than 
the eternal welfare of their souls, and the service of Almighty 
God, ought to guide their attention, and regulate their con- 
duct in this respect. 

t. Saint Chrysostom more at large deplores the misfortune 
of those parents who, notwithstanding their Christian profes- 
sion, sacrifice their children, not to God as Abraham did, but 
to Satan, either by engaging them in the pursuits of a vain 
world, or by drawing them from the practice of a virtuous 
life. " Abraham is the only one," says he, "who consecrates his 
son to God, while thousands of others turn their children over 
to the devil ; and the joys we feel in seeing some few take a 
Christian care of their little ones, is presently suppressed with 
grief at the sight of those greater numbers, who totally 
neglect that duty, and by the example they give, deserve to 
be considered rather as parricides, than the parents of their 
children/ 



13. HOHENUNDEN. 



1. AN Linden, when the sun was low, 

^ All bloodless lay the untrodden snow 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser, rolUng rapidly. 

2. But Linden saw another sight, 
When the drum beat at dead of night 
Commanding fires of death to light 

The darkness of her scenery. 

3. By torch and trumpet fast array'd, 
Each horseman drew his battle-blade ; 
And furious every charger neigh'd 

To join the dreadful revelry. 

4. Then shook the hills with thunder riven, 
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven. 



124 THE THIRD READER. 

And louder than the bolts of heaven 
Far flash'd the red artillery. 

6. But redder yet that light shall glow 
On Linden's hills of stain'd snow, 
And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

6. 'Tis morn ; but scarce yon level sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, 
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 
Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 

T. The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 
Who rush to glory or the grave ! 
Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave, 
And charge with all thy chivalry 1 

8. Few, few shall part where many meet I 
The snow shall be their winding sheet ; 
And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 



14. Language of Flowers. 

GOOD news ! joyful news I" cried the happy voice of Alice 
Telford, running in with a huge bunch of roses in her 
hand. " Come, Cattie 1 come, Honor ! we are to go to help 
Sister Theresa in the sacristy, — oh, I do so love that ! The 
great candlesticks are out, and the new branches, and such a 
lovely veil for the tabernacle I I was peeping in with one 
eye, after I had helped to clean the chapel, and Father Ash- 
urst said * Come here with me ; I see what you want ; ' and 
he went into the nuns' sacristy, and told Sister Theresa there 
was a poor beggar outside who wanted to speak to her ; and 
when she came out, he did so laugh I and then Sister Theresa 
told me to fetch all the girls to help to dress the sanctuary.'' 



LANGUAGE OF FLOWEKa. 125 

2. She was still speaking, when all the children began to 
run here and there, to gather up their flowers, vases, and 
strings ; but the lay sister, who was darning stockings at the 
table, quietly collected her work into her basket, and with a 
few calm and controlling words stilled the excitement, and 
soon reducing the scattered elements into order, a quiet pro- 
gressive movement was effected towards the convent. 

3. They found Lucy Ward and Magdalen in the nuns' sac- 
risty. ■ The former was silently arranging a large basket of 
exquisite hot-house flowers in tall fairy-like white vases ; and 
as the sacristan glanced at those which were finished, she 
could not but marvel at the faultless taste which guided the 
labor, and breathe a fervent prayer for the soul that seemed 
marked out by God for some special grace. 

4. " You love flowers, Lucy ? " • 

"Do I not love them, sister ?" replied Lucy ; "I dream of 
them at night, — I should like to die looking at them." 

"Which do you love best ?" 

" I never could quite tell. They speak such different words ; 
but all that they say makes music." 

*' True. Is that why you love them ? " 

5. " Yes, sister ; I get very tired of hearing people talk, 
but I am never tired of the silent words of my dear flowers. 
They say so much." 

** What do they seem to say to you this evening ?" 
"They all seem to whisper something new," replied Lucy, 
thoughtfully, and as if to herself. "Look at these white 
camellias, and side by side with them these blood-red ones.> 
They seem to me to mean so much, but I cannot read it. 
Can you, sister ? " 

6. "Yes," replied the nun, gently. "The sight of that 
pure white and blood-red reminds us always of the Sacred 
Heart of Jesus that was pierced for us. Look, here are the 
blood and water that flowed out for us. They speak the 
sweetest music to our hearts." 

7. "That is beautiful !" said Lucy, hanging on the words ; 
"and you understand the flowers too. Everybody has always 
laughed at me if I spoke about it^ excq)t Matthew. Dear 



126 THE THIRD READER. 

Matthew — he never laughs at me but he shakes his head, 
and says I have wild talk, and he can't make it out." 
''You love Matthew ?" 

8. "Oh, I love him in my deep heart!" said Lucy, her 
wax-like cheek and brow flushing with a thrill of feeling. 

" You have, then, two hearts ; and you love sometimes 
with one and sometimes with the other ? " 

"Yes, sister, I have an outer heart for everybody ; but no 
one is in my inside heart but Matthew and — " she stopped 
short. 

9. " And our Lord, now — Lucy ?" 

"I can't tell," replied Lucy, returning to her old reserve. 
"No, I think my inside heart is very empty. Let us talk about 
the flowers again. Look at these roses, sister ; their heads 
are quite bowed down with their weight ; they cannot keep 
in their sweet smell ; it seems as if it burst out from then' great 
cups. That says something beautiful, but I don't know what." 

10. "I think it does," replied the nun : "it says that they 
are a faint poor type of that great One who said, ' I am the 
Rose of Sharon;' and whose thorn-crowned head was so 
bowed down with his weight of love on the cross, that the 
overflowing scent of it converted first the poor thief, and 
afterwards thousands of miserable sinners. Let it draw you, 
my child, till you run after those most precious odors, and 
make them yours forever." 

11. Lucy was quite silent for a few minutes, and then draw- 
ing out a rich cluster of geraniums, she turned her large eyes 
full on the nun and said, "These I love best of all, but I 
never could make out what they said. They all seem to sing 
together a very rich song that goes through my heart, hke a 
hymn I heard the Spanish sailors sing down on the Parade 
last summer at night. Can you read these ? " 

12. "Perhaps not in a way that you can understand. 
These may represent the royal and special gifts which God 
bestows on the friends he has chosen to himself. They are 
set apart and separated from other gifts. They are only to 
be bought at a great price, nay, they are often of priceless 
value. They cost labor, and pains, and watching ; but when 



HOMEWAED BOUND. 



127 



the work is done, where can we find its like ? Those who pos- 
sess them will be the brightest jewels in his crown at the last 
day." 

13. ''And who can win these gifts?" said Lucy, breath- 
lessly awaiting the answer. 

" Those who love" rephed the nun, and her words seemed 
to Lucy the solemn voice of God. 

The tears rushed to her eyes, and she murmured to herself, 
"When shall I know him? When will he Jill my inner 
heart?" 



/ 




A, 



15. HoMEWAED Bound. 



1. AH ! when the hour to meet again 
^ Creeps on — and, speeding o'er the sea, 
My heart takes up its lengthened chain. 

And, link by hnk, draws nearer thee — 
When land is hail'd, and from the shore, 

Comes off the blessed breath of home, 
With fragrance from my mother's door. 

Of flowers forgotten when I come — 



128 THE THIRD READER. 

When port is gain'd, and, slowly now, 
The old familiar paths are pass'd, 

And, entering — unconscious how — 
I gaze upon thy face at last. 

And run to thee, all faint and weak, 

And feel thy tears upon my cheek. 
2. Oh ! if my heart break not with joy, 

The light of heaven will fairer seem ; 
And I shall grow once more a boy : 

And, mother I — ^'twill be like a dream, 
That we were parted thus for years — 
And once that we have dried our tears, 
How will the days seem long and bright — 

To meet thee always with the morn. 
And hear thy blessing every night — 

Thy "dearest," thy ''first-born !" 
And be no more, as now, in a strange land forlorn ? 



16. Lucy's Death. 



HOW is Lucy?" asked Mildred of Cattie, as she softly 
entered the children's class-room on the morning of the 
eve of the Octave of the Assumption ; " have you seen h 
Cattie?" 

" Oh, yes, I have been with Magdalen to talk to her, and 
to say our office," replied Cattie ; " Magdalen thinks she will 
die very soon, but I cannot believe it. Oh, she does look so 
bright and beautiful — just hke an angel ! " 

2. ''That's why I think she's going to die," replied Mag- 
dalen, who now followed Cattie into the room with her office- 
book in her hand. " Lucy looks much too beautiful to live ; 
I mean not commonly beautiful, but she has such a wonderful 
look. Her eyes seem as if they had seen our Blessed Lady 
already ; and she smiles every now and then to herself, as if 
the angels were talking to her." 

§. "So tlaey do, and our Lord, too, I am sure," added 



Lucy's death. 129 

Cattle; "far she said when nobody was speaking, 'Yes, that 
is quite true — ^yes, dear Lord ; ' just as if our Lord were sitting 
by the couch. Oh, I hope we may go again soon and see 
her!" 

4. " Sister Xavier said we might sit up part of to-night," 
repUed Magdalen ; "we four are to take it in turns, and I am 
so glad we may. But now we must go into school, for the 
bell is just going to ring." 

5. The said bell accordingly did ring before Cattle had 
finished washing her hands ; and the half-sad, half-rejoicing 
group in the class-room was dispersed by its well-known sound. 

We shall take the opportunity of walking up to the convent, 
and into the cool infirmary dormitory, where Lucy lay upon a 
large couch, with dear Sister Xavier by her side. 

6. The dormitory was long and high, and refreshingly 
shaded by outside awnings from the scorching sun, so that the 
breezes blew in cool and fragrant over the garden and from 
the sea beyond. The turfy downs outside the walls looked 
now green and bright, and now shadowy, as the clouds flew 
over them ; and beyond, the castle-crowned hill, and distant, 
picturesque old town, the chalk cliffs washed by the waves, the 
far-oflf fleet of fishing-boats, and the wild everlasting sea, — 
could all be seen by Lucy, as in some lovely Italian landscape, 
exquisitely painted. 

t. But though at times her eyes were fixed upon the blue 
sky or bluer sea, her thoughts were not of them. Beautiful 
as was the world without, — the glorious "earth-rind" of the 
external works of God, — there were far loveher visions floating 
before the eyes of the pure and loving soul that was bidding 
earthly beauty farewell for her eternal home. 

8. For now, indeed, Lucy was dying. The longing desire 
of heaven, and the face of her Incarnate God, had so fretted 
the frail body, which already inherited the most rapid form of 
decline, that thread after thread of the delicate frame had 
snapped, or, as it were, been consumed by the ardent fire within. 

9. A careless observer might have been even now deceived ; 
but to a practised eye, the alabaster temples, the starting 
azure vems, the bright cheek and Mps, and the deep, glittering 

6* 



130 THE THIRD READEE. 

brightness of the eye, told that in a few hours the thirsting 
soul would be at rest. 

10. " Sister," whispered Lucy, "will Father Ashurst come 
soon ? " 

" Very soon, dear child ; it is not three o'clock yet. Do 
you feel worse ? " 

"I feel well," replied Lucy, speaking with difficulty, ''quite 
well ; but oh, I see such lovely things, and I want to get there 
very much." 

11. The sister listened with breathless attention, while Lucy, 
as if from a heavy dream or h'alf ectasy, in broken sentences 
continued — 

*'Xo words can tell what they are like .... white shapes, 
all snow-white, with golden dew-drops on their wings .... and 
they bow down softly all together, like white lilies when the 
i*ind blows over them. They are going up and up, such a 
glorious place .... and they take me with them .... but 

where I cannot see There is one there who sits like a 

ki'ig, but I cannot see his face ; he says it is not time." .... 

12. Two sisters at the moment came softly into the dormi- 
to"'y, one of whom whispered something to Sister Xavier ; the 
other was Mother Regis, the novice-mistress, whom Lucy had 
always greatly loved. But now she did not perceive her ; and 
as they quietly sat down behind the couch, she again spoke : 

13. "And now, I thmk, it would be time, if Father Ashurst 
were to come and bring me my last food. I think if he were 
here, I could beg him so much that he could not leave me be- 
hind. Dear Sister Xavier, will you ask Father Ashurst to 
come now ? " 

14. "He is coming, my child," replied the sister, softly 
rising and bending over her ; " but, Lucy, you promised to 
be very good and patient." 

"Yes, sister, I was wrong. Indeed I will be good. I will 
wait ; but every moment seems a year. I cannot think how 
you can be always so patient when you see those shapes, and 
see his face so often, and hear his voice. Xow I see them- 
going up again. 

15. "Oh, how many, mamj thousands, with their hands to- 



Lucy's death. 131 

gether, and their long, long wings, and their snow- white robes I 
And there are more, more, with bare heads, and crimson crosses 
on their breasts, and bf ight armor, and cloaks all washed in 
the blood of One. Oh, let me go with them I Show me thy 
face, and let me live I " 

16. Sister Xavier rose and ghded away ; but she soon re- 
turned with a religious, at the sight of whom the sisters rose, 
and removed further from Lucy's couch. It was the Mother 
Superior, who quietly took her place beside Lucy's pillow, and 
wiped the death-drops that now stood thickly on her trans- 
parent brow. 

"Reverend mother,'^ said the child, catching hold of her 
hand, and kissing it with joyful respect, "where am I ?" Then 
immediately she relapsed into her former dreamy state. 

17. "There is one sittmg by his side. She is coming soon 
for me, for her hands are spread out towards me. Mary ! 

Mother ! Mary, lead me to Jesus ! . . . . Come quickly, dear 
Jesus ; I am very tired of waiting. Oh, let me see thee I 
Thou art sweeter than honey and the honeycomb. Thou art 
calling me to be crowned on the mountains. How long have 

1 cried to thee to come I .... " Lucy sank back, gasping on 
the pillow ; her breath coming thick and thicker from her 
labormg breast, while the drops stood on her forehead like 
rain. Her eyes opened, and their depths seemed deeper than 
ever. " Food I food I" she gasped, "the end is coming." 

18. At that moment the faint sound of a distant bell was 
heard coming along the corridors. It was borne so faintly at 
first, that the sisters did not observe it ; but the first sound 
was enough for the ear of the listener. To her it was the 
"cry of the voice" of the Beloved. She sprang up from the 
pillows, clasped her hands together, and gazed at the door of 
the dormitory with her whole soul in her eyes. 

19. Sister Xavier immediately perceiving that the blessed 
sacrament was approaching, went out with Mother Regis to 
meet it. The little altar had been freshly prepared by the 
infirmarian with large bouquets of flowers, and was now lifted 
by the other sister to the foot of Lucy's couch, at a little dis- 
tance from it. Nearer and nearer came the bell. The acolytes 



132 THE THIED HEADER. 

entered, two and two, with lighted candles ; then all the sis- 
ters ; and lastly came Father Ashurst, in surplice, veil, and 
stole, bearing the blessed sacrament in the ciborium, from the 
chapel. The "children of Mary" stole in behind. 

20. Lucy's glorious eyes were upraised to the Sacred Host, 
and fixed with such adoring love as filled the witnesses with 
an awful joy. "Jesus," she said, and the clear tones of her 
young voice sounded through the breathless stillness like the 
voice of an angel, — "Jesus, my food, my strength, my life, 
come to my thirsty soul. Now I see thy face. It is enough ; 
I come into thy precious, precious wounds ! " 

21. She received the bread of life, the strength and help for 
her last journey, and immediately sank back on the pillows. 
Her hands were clasped ; her deep eyes fixed : a bright, heav- 
enly smile flitted across her face. "Jesus, Jesus ! now I 
see thee ! Jesus, Mary, come !" 

22. The long, level rays of the evening sun streamed upon 
the couch, gilding the angelic face and shining waves of hair, 
the smile yet hngering, the Ups yet apart, the hands still gently 
clasped upon the breast. 

The pilgrim was gone on her way refreshed ; the wanderer 
was at home. 



17. Autobiography of a Eose. 

ON a fine morning in June, I opened my eyes for the first 
time on as lovely a scene as could be imagined. I was 
in the heart of a most beautiful garden filled with flowers. 
Fucshias, geraniums, jasmines, tulips, and liUes were my com- 
panions. I saw them all wide awake, and smiling through the 
dew upon their bright lids in joyous greeting to the morning 
sun. A gentle breeze would sometimes wander by, and then 
the tears of rejoicing would fall upon the delicate blades of 
grass at our feet. 

2. The dew made the robes of my neighbors as bright as if 
covered with diamonds, so that I cast a look upon my own 
pink vesture, to see if I were likewise adorned with the same 



AUTOBIOGBAPHY OF A ROSE. 133 

glory. As I bowed my head to inspect myself, a few drops 
of the crystal water, condensed at nightfall, fell upon the grass 
at my feet, and from this I learned that I was indeed gifted 
with as beautiful gems as were those around me. 

3. Let me describe to you one of the little community of 
which I was a member — a sister rose-bud growing at my side. 
It is true that she had not opened her glowing heart to the 
fresh breezes and to the sunshine, as I had done, but the 
beauty and fragrance thus concealed were so sweetly promised, 
that I am sure nothing could be more lovely. 

4. Spreading tenderly, her calyx held her heart, bursting 
with the wealth of its own beauty, lest the wooing winds 
should call forth her fragrance prematurely ; and two~ sister 
baby rose-buds rested their little heads almost upon her cheek. 
Pretty twms, these baby rose-buds ! The tell-tale zephyr told 
me that they would be as beautiful as the one I am now de- 
scribing, when she, poor thing, had faded away. 

5. Kow, you see, my heart first tasted sorrow ; for here- 
tofore I had not heard of decay or death ; and the emotion 
aroused by this thought agitated me so violently, that my dew- 
diamonds were almost all cast, like worthless bubbles, to the 
ground. This joy, this sunshine, this fragrance, this beauty, 
was born to fade — or rather we flowers, who love all these, 
and t:^easure them in our hearts, we must fade, and so the joy, 
and fragrance, and beauty must die. But my beautiful sister 
was lovely enough to be immortal — and I shut my heart 
against the story of the zephyr, determined not to believe in 
clouds till clouds should overshadow me. 

6. The bright green leaves spread their glittering palms to 
catch the sunshine for the fair creature they were so proud to 
encircle, and every motion of the parent stem brought a flood 
of smiles to the face of my peerless sister. 

*I. A beautiful creature, endowed with wings, and with a 
throat colored like the rainbow, only with hues more soft, 
played about her like an embodied breeze ; now darting, with 
a motion that made it invisible, up into the au', and in a mo- 
ment swaying, with a musical hum of wings, around my rose- 
neighbor, and making her sunny vesture tremble with the 



134 THE THIED READER. 

happy emotions of her heart ; then, with kisses and caresses 
on my sister's stainless brow, the wonderful creature was lost 
in the air above me, and I think that the humming-bird must 
have gone to a place where there is no death. I think it is 
with the breath of these beautiful beings that the rainbow is 
colored, and with then* brightness that the stars are lighted. 

8. I saw strange, large beings, with power in every motion, 
bending over us, and afterwards learned that they were called 
men. They held dominion over us, and though some scorned 
our gentle natures, they who were pure and good among them 
were very tender to us, and could not bear to see us wounded. 

9. At noon of my first day, when the shadow of the moun- 
tain-ash waving over our heads completely hid me from the 
sun, for which kindness I was deeply grateful, as the rays, so 
cheering in the morning, were almost scorching now, one of 
the daughters of men, robed in white, came and kneeled beside 
me, and laid her pure cheek close to mine, and then with her 
eyes she talked to me. 

10. "Rose," said she, "beautiful rose, thou art an emblem 
of my blessed mother," and here a dew more pure and sweet 
than the drops I had sacrificed in the morning at the thought 
of death and decay, floated along the dark fringes of her hds, 
and I could not hear the voice from her eyes until those peer- 
less gems had fallen upon my bosom. Then it seemed to me 
that I could hear and see things more wonderful than were 
ever given to rose before to hear and see. 

11. "Beautiful rose !" she continued, "lift thy royal head, 
and look eastward ; thou beholdest there a building most 
sacred to our hearts, for it contains the King of Heaven — the 
Creator of the world — the Author of my being and of thine. 
Lovely flower, ages and ages ago, longer ago than thou or I 
can think to measure, in the glorious country beyond the stars 
— in heaven — where stands the eternal throne of our King, a 
beautiful angel, a being of power and light, rebelled against 
his God, and was cast out of his holy home forever. Then 
the world was created. 

12. "It was made as perfect and delightful as our Heavenly 
Father could frame it, and there was neither sin, nor tears, 



AUTOBIOGEAPHY OF A ROSE. 135 

nor death, nor sorrow there. In this garden of God was man 
first created. He was formed holy, sinless, and pure, but free 
as was the bright angel who, with his brethren, cho^e to ques- 
tion the power of the Omnipotent. The name of this angel 
was Lucifer, and his dominion was estabhshed in outer dark- 
ness, far away from the eternal fountain of all light. 

13. "Beautiful rose," said the maiden, "thou who art nur- 
tured by, and wouldst die but for the light, thou canst not 
conceive of this outer darkness — but it exists, and the fallen 
angels seek to blacken the universe with its gloom. The first 
of mankind, who were to enjoy eternal light so long as they 
were obedient to God, were discovered by the prince of dark- 
ness, and he took the form of a reptile, and tempted them to 
douht the truth of the Almighty Father. They beheved his 
subtle words and fell, and were banished from the garden as 
Lucifer had been banished from heaven." 



18. Autobiography of a Kose — continued, 

SWEET rose, I dare not tell thee the wretchedness this 
disobedience brought upon man. There came sickness, 
and sorrow, and sighing — ^there came hatred, crime, and death. 
Our Heavenly Father saw this wretchedness ; saw the triumph 
of Lucifer and his rebel army, and he so loved the world that 
he sent his only begotten Son upon earth to be a man — to 
suffer poverty, to suffer temptation, to suffer ignominy ajid 
death — that thus man might be saved from eternal deaih. 

2. "This God, incarnate in humanity, was born of a spotless 
virgin — spotless and perfect as thou art, Rose, and thus art 
thou in thy beauty her emblem, just as one Uttle fleeting sun- 
beam is a type of the innumerable hosts of suns and worlds 
that revolve in the heavens. 

3. "This God-man, whose name was Jesus, was slain cruelly 
by those whom he came to save. He died on the cross ; but 
before he left the world, he gave to man his body and blood, 
his divine humanity, as food to nourish his soul. By this 



136 THE 'fHIBD BEAPEB. 

means he unites himself to us, and we who love him delight to 
offer what is richest and dearest in return for his unbounded 
love ; for by his death he has snatched us from the power of 
the prince of darkness, and in exchange has given us a joint 
inheritance with him in heaven, where there is no death or 
decay." 

4. The white-robed daughter of men ceased speaking, or 
rather her gentle eyes, that told this all to me, were turned 
away eastward, to where the dome of the palace, where dwelt 
the King of kings, ghttered calmly in the sun. 

5. She looked long and lovingly ; and the dew, so priceless 
and sweet, flowed in two pearly streams down her fair face ; 
and I came near worshipping her, because so great tenderness 
seized my heart as thus I gazed upon her. But the speaking 
eyes turned once more, and said, "What shall we offer ?" Up 
from the inmost depths of my heart swelled the fragrant drops 
that the twilight had stored there. " What shall / offer ? " I 
repeated ; ''I who am so poor in treasure ; I who have nothing 
but my beauty, my freshness, and my unsuUied purity ? 

6. " What can I offer to God for his generous love to thy 
race, beautiful maiden ? He gave the life of a Man-God. Oh, 
bear me to his presence I I can do no more than give myself 
to him f^ Take me, then, dear maiden — I would lie at his feet. 
Mayhap he may accept the odor of my sacrifice, and bear me 
in his bosom, where there is no decay or death 1 Hasten, for 
his love draws me, and I would tarry here no longer 1 " 

t. The young lover of Jesus severed me gently from my 
companions, and clasping me to her heart, bore me to the feet 
of her Saviour. As we passed forward to the sanctuary, she 
made the sign of the cross — ^because Jesus died upon the cross 
— by passing her hand from her forehead to her breast, and then 
from shoulder to shoulder ; but before she did this, she dipped 
the tips of her fingers in holy water, and some of it fell upon 
me, and I experienced sensations I had never before imagined. 

8. As I rested there at the foot of the altar, it seemed to 
me that more life came to me from those simple drops than 
had ever been bestowed by the heaviest shower or gentlest 
rain before. The maiden now bent over me, and her eyes were 



AUTOBIOaBAPHY OF A BOSE. 137 

fixed tenderly upon me, and again her voice whispered to my 
spirit : 

9. "0 humble, gentle, innocent rose," said she ; "thou who 
art so soon to pass away, let me learn from thy devotion, and 
freely give to my God all that he has so freely bestowed upon 
me ; however little, however much, sweet rose, thou hast 
taught me to offer all as the just due of my Creator ! " Then 
her white hand veiled her eyes, and her bosom heaved, and, in 
one great tear that fell upon me, I saw her beautiful soul mir- 
rored. I saw what I had never dreamed of before. 

10. Lucifer, the fallen angel, was striving to lure this noble 
being to disobedience, that she might be driven from the par- 
adise of ber Redeemer's love. This was why the tears fell ; 
this was why her bosom heaved. Then I saw an angel of 
light with his powerful wings sweep through the air, and the 
rays from his glorious brow dazzled the eye of the prince of 
darkness, and he reeled away from the presence of the weeping 
daughter of earth. 

11. Oh 1 then what an ocean of sweetness flowed over that 
tempted soul, and bore her unresisting to the eternal fountain 
of all sweetness. She pressed her cheek once more to mine in 
honor of the mother of her Saviour, and music issued from her 
lips, low and soft as the voice of a night-bird. 

12. " Thou gavest thy life to God, dear flawer, unquestion- 
ing. Thou hadst no assurance of immortality in return. In 
the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy 
Ghost, I bless thee, beautiful flower, for I have learned of 
thee a lesson that, by the grace of God, will earn for me life 
eternal. Be my witness, humble Kose ! be my witness, angels 
hovering near me 1 I give my life, my love, my being through 
all times to thee, my bleeding, suffering, patient Jesus ! Hold 
me to my pledge, dear Saviour, by the might of thy tenderness, 
and let me never swerve from the integrity of my purpose^ 
bound this day with my heart to thy dear cross!" 

13. Night fell over us both, and I slept with the sweet mur- 
mur of that voice still vibrating the chambers of ray soul. 
Through the season of my freshness, I daily caught the incense 
of this maiden's devotion arising befoi'e the altar ; and, by a 



138 THE THIKD READER. 

seeming chance, after my leaves had withered and faded, I 

was concealed from the sight of the sacristan, and even for 
months lay happily at the feet of the Redeemer of the world. 
Thus I witnessed the formal consecration of this maiden to the 
will of her chosen one. 

14. She was arrayed in white, and her brow was crowned 
with buds from the rose-tree that gave me birth. She knew 
not that I beheld her then, but I felt that my image had never 
faded from her heart. The pure folds of her snowy veil fell 
over her shoulders like the plumage of wings at rest ; and I 
remembered the angel who had put to flight the prince of dark- 
ness, and I was sure he was near her ; for her face had become 
like his, and I think it was because he was so constantly at 
her side, and because she loved him so. I think she was the 
earthly mirror of the heavenly being who protected her from 
danger, and that her face and bearing reflected his beauty and 
grace, as the tear-drop that feU upon me from her eyes re- . 
fleeted her soul at that moment. ^ 

15. I never saw this maiden more ; but I think her angel- 
will lead her to heaven. Yesterday, as I lay here, a httle.- 
wilted remnant of a rose, the sacristan raised me in her fingers, ' 
and supposing me to be a particle of incense that had fallen, 
she placed me in the censer. Thus, when the benediction of 
this evening is pronounced, I shall have fulfilled my mission, 
and shall ascend upon the gentle clouds that then will over- 
shadow the tabernacle of the Most High. 



19. Winter. 



THE scenes around us have assumed a new and chilling ap- 
pearance. The trees are shorn of their foLlage, the hedges 
are laid bare, the fields and favorite walks have lost their 
charms, and the garden, now that it yields no perfumes and 
offers no fruits, is, like a friend in adversity, forsaken. The 
tuneful tribes are dumb, the cattle no longer play in the mead- 
ows, the north wind blows. "He sendeth abroad his ice-like 



WINTER. 139 

morsels : who can stand before his cold ? " We rush, in for 
shelter. 

2. But winter is not without its uses. It aids the system 
of life and vegetation I it kills the seeds of infection ; it refines 
the blood ; it strengthens the nerves ; it braces the whole 
frame. Snow is a warm covering for the grass ; and, while it 
defends the tender blades from nipping frosts, it also nourishes 
their growth. When the snow thaws, it becomes a genial 
moisture to the soil into which it smks ; and thus the glebe 
is replenished with nutriment to produce the bloom of spring 
and the bounty of autumn. 




3. Winter has also its pleasures. I love to hear the roar- 
ing of the wind ; I love to see the figures which the frost has 
painted on the glass ; I love to watch the redbreast with his 
slender legs, standing at the window, and knocking with his 
bill to ask for the crumbs which fall from the table. Is it not 
pleasant to view a landscape whitened with snow ? To gaze 
upon the trees and hedges dressed in such sparkling lustre ? 
To behold the rising sun laboring to pierce the morning fog, 
and gradually causing objects to emerge from it by little and 
little, and appear in their own forms ; while the mist rolls up 
l^e side of the bill and is seen no more ? 



140 THE THIBD KEADER. 

4. Winter is a season in which we should feel gratitude for 
our comforts. How much more temperate is our clunate than 
that of many other countries ! Think of those who live within 
the polar circle, dispersed, exposed to beasts of prey, their 
poor huts furnishing only wretched refuge ! They endm^e 
months of perpetual night, and by the absence of heat almost 
absolute barrenness reigns around. But we have houses to 
shelter us, and clothes to cover us, and fires to warm us, and 
beds to comfort us, and provisions to nourish us. How be- 
coming, in our circumstances, is gratitude to Gcd ! 

6. This season calls upon us to exercise benevolence. While 
we are enjoying every comfort which the tenderness of ProvL 
dence can afford, let us think of the indigent and the misera- 
ble. Let us think of those whose poor hovels and shattered 
panes cannot screen them from the piercing told. Let us 
think of the old and the infirm, of the sick and the diseased. 
Oh, let "the blessing of them that are ready to perish come 
upon us." Who would not deny himself superfluities, and 
something more, that his bounty may visit "the fatherless and 
the widows in their affliction." 

6. This season is instructive as an emblem. Here is the 
picture of thy life : thy flowery spring, thy summer strength, 
thy sober autumn, are all hastening into winter. Decay and 
death will soon, very soon, lay all "waste ! What provision 
hast thou made for the evil day ? Hast thou been laying up 
treasure in heaven ? hast thou been laboring for that wealth 
which endureth unto everlasting life I 

7. Soon spring will dawn again upon us with its beauty and 
its songs. And "we, according to his promise, look for new 
heavens and a new earth wherein dwelleth righteousness." No 
winter there ; but we shall flourish in perpetual spring, in end- 
less youth, in everlasting life I 



THE SNOW. 



141 




20. The Snow. 

1. rnHE snow I the snow I 'tis a pleasant thing 
-L To watch it falling, falling 

Down upon earth with noiseless wing 

As at some spirit's calling ; 
Each flake is a fairy parachute, 

From teeming clouds let down ; 
And earth is still, and air is mute. 

As frost's enchanted zone. 

2. The snow I the snow I— behold the trees 

Their fingery boughs stretch out, 
The blossoms of the sky to seize, 

As they duck and dive about ; 
The bare hills plead for a covering. 

And, ere the gray twilight, 
Around their shoulders broad shall cling 

An arctic cloak of white. 



14:2 THE THIBD BEADEB. 

3. The snow ! the snow ! — alas I to me 

It speaks of far-off days, 
When a boyish skater, mmghng free 

Amid the merry maze ; 
Methinks I see the broad ice still, 

And my nerves all jangling feel, 
Bl;3nding with tones of voices shrill 

The ring of the slider's heel. 

4. The snow I the snow 1 — soon dusky night 

Drew his murky curtains round 
Low earth, while a star of lustre bright 

Peep'd from the blue profound. 
Yet what cared we for darkening lea. 

Or warning bell remote ? 
With shout and cry we scudded by, 

And found the bUss we sought. 

6. The snow I the snow I — 'twas ours to wage^ 

How oft, a mimic war. 
Each white ball tossing in wild rage, 

That left a gorgeous scar ; 
While doublets dark were powder'd o'er 

Till darkness none could find. 
And valorous chiefs had wounds before, 

And caitiff chiefs behind. 

6. The snow I the snow ! — I see him yet, 

That piled-up giant grim, 
To startle horse and traveller set. 

With Titan girth of limb. 
We hoped, oh, ice-ribb'd Winter bright I 

Thy sceptre could have screen'd him ; 
But traitor Thaw stole forth by night. 

And cruelly guillotined him I 

1. The snow ! the snow ! — Lo ! Eve reveals 
Her sti rr'd map to the moon, 



USES OF WATER. 143 

And o'er hush'd earth a radiance steals 

More bland than that of noon ; 
The fur-robed genii of the Pole 

Dance o'er our mountains white, 
Chain up the billows as they roll, 

And pearl the caves with light. 

6. The snow I the snow ! — It brings to mind 

A thousand happy things ; 
And but one sad one — 'tis to find 

Too sure that Time hath wings I 
Oh, ever sweet is sight or sound, 

That tells of long ago, 
And I gaze around with thoughts profound. 

Upon the fallmg snow. 



21. Uses of Water. 

HOW common, and yet how beautiful and how pure, is a 
drop of water I See it, as it issues from the rock to sup- 
ply the spring and the stream below. See how its meander- 
ings through the plains, and its torrents over the cliffs, add 
to the richness and the beauty of the landscape. Look into 
a factory standing by a waterfall, in which every drop is 
faithful to perform its part, and hear the groaning and rust- 
Img of the wheels, the clattering of shuttles, and the buzz of 
spindles, which, under the direction of their /air attendants, 
are supplying myriads of fair purchasers with fabrics from the 
cotton-plant, the sheep, and the silkworm. 

2. Is any one so stupid as not to admire the splendor of 
the rainbow, or so ignorant as not to know that it is pro- 
duced by drops of water, as they break away from the clouds 
which had confined them, and are making a quick visit to our 
earth to renew its verdure and increase its animation ? How 
useful is the gentle dew, in its nightly visits, to allay the 
scorching heat of a summer's sun ! 

3. And the autumn's frost, how beautifully it bedecks the 



IM THE THIRD READER. 

trees, the shrubs, and the grass : though it strips them of their 
summer's verdure, and warns them that they must soon re- 
ceive the buffe tings of the winter's tempest 1 This is but 
water, which has given up its transparency for its beautiful 
whiteness and its elegant crystals. The snow, too, — what is 
that but these same pure drops, thrown into crystals by win- 
ter's icy hand ? and does not the first summer's sun return 
them to the same limpid drops ? 

4. The majestic river, and the boundless ocean, — what are 
they ? Are they not made of drops of water ? How the 
river steadily pursues its course from the mountain's top, 
down the declivity, over the cliff, and though the plain, tak- 
ing with it every thing in its course I How many mighty 
ships does the ocean float upon its bosom I How many fishes 
sport in its waters ! How does it form a lodging-place for 
the Amazon, the Mississippi, the Danube, the Rhine, the Gan- 
ges, the Lena, and the Hoang Ho 1 , 

5. How piercing are these pure limpid drops I How do 
they find their way into the depths of the earth, and even the 
solid rock ! How many thousand streams, hidden from our 
view by mountain masses, are steadily pursuing their courses 
deep from the surface which forms our standing-place for a 
few short days ! In the air, too, how it diffuses itself I 
Where can a particle of air be found, which does not contain 
an atom of water ? 

6. How much would a famishing man give for a few of these 
pure limpid drops of water I And where do we use it in our 
daily sustenance ? or rather, where do we not use it ? Which 
portion of the food that we have taken during our hves, did 
not contain it? What part of our body, which limb, which 
organ, is not moistened with this same faithful servant ? How 
is our blood, that free liquid, to ckculate through our veins 
without it ? 

1. How gladly does the faithful horse, or the patient ox, 
in his toilsome journey, arrive at the water's brink ! And 
the faithful dog, patiently following his master's track, — how 
eagerly does he lap the water from the clear fountain he meets 
in his way ! 



THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. 145 

8. Whose heart ought not to overflow with gratitude to 
the abundant Giver of this pure liquid, which his own hand 
has deposited in the deep, and diffused through the floating 
air and the soUd earth ? Is it the farmer, whose fields, by 
the gentle dew and the abundant rain, bring forth fatness ? 
Is it the mechanic, whose saw, lathe, spindle, and shuttle are 
moved by this faithful servant ? 

9. Is it the merchant, on his return from the noise and the 
perplexities of business, to the table of his family, richly sup- 
plied with the varieties and the luxuries of the four quarters 
of the globe, produced by the abundant rain, and transported 
across the mighty but yielding ocean ? 

10. Is it the physician, on his administermg to his patient 
some gentle beverage, or a more active healer of the disease 
which threatens ? Is it the priest, whose profession it is to 
make others feel — and that by feehng himself, that the slight- 
est favor and the richest blessing are from the same source, 
and from the same abundant and constant Giver ? Who, that 
still has a glass of water and a crumb of bread, is not un- 
grateful to complain ? 



The Dying Christian to his Soul. 

1. TTITAL spark of heavenly flame, 

» Quit, oh, quit this mortal frame I 
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying, 
Oh, the pain, the bliss of dying ! 
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, 
And let me languish into life. 

2. Hark ! they whisper ; angels say, 
Sister Spirit, come away ; 
What is this absorbs me quite ? 
Steals my senses, shuts my sight, 
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath : 
Tell me, my soul, can this be death ? 

7 



146 THE THIED BEADER. 

3. The world recedes ; it disappears I 
Heaven opens on my eyes ! my ears 

With sounds seraphic ring. 
Lend, lend your wings ; I mount, I fly I 
O Grave ! where is thy victory ! 
Death I where is thy sting ! 



22. Flight into Egypt. 

HEROD was impatient for the sages' return from Bethle- 
hem, till finding they had slighted the charge he gave 
them, and were gone home another way, he was hurried into 
a transport of anger, which deluged the country with innocent 
blood. By an act, the most inhuman that ever was done by 
the worst of tyrants, he has shown the world what his inten- 
tion was, when he so carefully questioned the sages, and so 
strictly ordered them to bring back an account of the child 
they were in quest of. 

2. But God, who laughs at man's presumptuous folly, si- 
lently defeated the tyrant's malice, and made his bloody 
cruelty instrumental to the glory of the innocent. An angel 
in the night informed Joseph of the murderous design that 
Herod had upon the child's life, and admonished him to save 
both him and the mother by a speedy flight into Egypt. 
Joseph in this instance is a perfect model of that prompt 
obedience which every Christian owes to the commands of 
God. He was commanded to rise that moment, to leave his 
native country, and fly off with the child and his mother, not 
towards the sages, or to any friendly nation, but into Egypt, 
amidst the idolatrous and natural enemies of the Jewish 
people. 

3. The tender age of the infant and the frail delicacy of 
the virgin mother, seemed to require every comfort that his 
own private dwelling could have afi'orded. But that slender 
comfort was to be given up ; it was dark night, and no time 



FLIGHT INTO EGYPT. 147 

to be lost in making provision for a long and laborious journey. 
The faithful guardian of the Word Incarnate rose upon the 
first notice that was given him, punctually fulfilled every tittle 
of the order, took the child and his mother, and set off for 
Egypt, uncertain when, or whether he should ever, return or 
not. The love he bore to Jesus, the desire he had of serving 
him to the extent of his power, softened every hardship, and 
made him forget the labors of an unlooked-for banishment. 

4. The divine Jesus might have rendered himself invisible, 
or by a visible exertion of his power might have disarmed 
Herod, as he did Pharaoh in ancient times ; but he choose to 
fly, for the encouragement of those who were afterwards to 
suffer banishment for his sake ; by his own example he would 
instruct his followers, that in the heat of persecution they 
may laudably fly to save their lives, in hopes of some future 
good. 

5. Herod began to rage with all the violence that jealousy, 
heightened by disappointment, could inspire. With a cruelty 
that would have shocked the most savage barbarian, he gave 
orders for every male child that had been born within the two 
last years, in and about Bethlehem, to be killed. To such 
barbarous shifts was the ambitious monarch driven by his 
pontics ! An innocent babe, he knew not who, made him 
tremble upon his throne ; he tried his utmost skill to find him 
out, he drenched the country with innocent blood to make sure 
of his destruction, he filled the air with the shrieks and lamen- 
tations of disconsolate mothers, that he might draw out the 
enjoyment of a crown to a somewhat greater length. 

6. But no honors purchased by such crimes could give any 
real enjoyment. His cruelty heaped confusion upon himself, 
while it opened the gate of happiness to those who felt its 
stroke : nor could it rage beyond the bounds that God had 
set it ; amidst the thousands of slaughtered innocents, He 
alone escaped, who alone was aimed at. 

t. No malicious efforts of the wicked can ever frustrate the 
decrees of God ; their hatred or their love become, as he 
pleases to direct, the instruments of his holy designs ; the 
whole world, combined with all the powers of darkness, can 



148 THE THIED READER. 

never stop the execution of what an omnipotent Providence 
has once decreed. 

8. If once assured of the divine will, we have but to follow 
it without fear : if in the station of our duty we have any thing 
to suffer, we suffer for justice' sake. Herod's cruelty became 
the glory of the innocents : his sword could hurt their bodies 
only ; their souls were sanctified by the effusion of their blood ; 
their memory through every age is celebrated on earth ; they 
reign eternally with God in heaven. 




[1 

23. The Freed Bird. 

1 p ETUR:N', return, my bird ! 

-Lt I have dress'd thy cage with flowers, 
'Tis lovely as a violet bank 
In the heart of forest bowers. 

2. "I am free, I am free, — I return no more ! 
The weary time of the cage is o'er ! 
Through the rolling clouds I can soar on high, 
The sky is around me — the blue bright sky ! 

3. "The hills lie beneath me, spread far and clear, 
With their glowing heath-flowers and bounding deer, 
I see the waves flash on the sunny shore — 

I am free, I am free, — I return no more 1 " 



THE FREED BIED. 149 

i. Alas, alas, my bird ! 

Why seek'st thou to be free ? 
Wert thou not blest in thy little bower, 
When thy song breathed nought but glee ? 

5. " Did my song of summer breathe nought but glee ? 
Did the voice of the captive seem sweet to thee ? 
Oh ! hadst thou known its deep meaning well, 

It had tales of a burning heart to tell. 

6. From a dream of the forest that music sprang. 
Through its notes the peal of a torrent rang j 
And its dying fall, when it soothed thee best, 
Sigh'd for wild flowers and a leafy nest." 

t. Was it with thee thus, my bird ? 

Yet thine eye flash'd clear and bright ? 
I have seen the glance of the sudden joy 
In its quick and dewy light. 

8. "It flash'd with the fire of a tameless race. 
With the soul of the wild wood, my native place I 
With the spirit that panted through heaven to soar- 
Woo me not back — I return no more ! 

9. " My home is high, amidst rocking trees, 
My kindred things are the star and breeze, 
And the fount uncheck'd in its lonely play, 
And the odors that wander afar — away I" 

10 Farewell, farewell, thou bird I 
I have caird on spirits gone. 
And it may be they joy like thee to part. 
Like thee that wert all my own. . 

11. "If they were captives, and pined like me. 

Though love might calm them, they joy'd to be free ; 
They sprung from the earth with a burst of power. 
To the strength of their wings, to their triumph's hour. 



150 THE THIBD READEB. 

12. " Call them not back when the chain is riyen, 

When the way of the pinion is all through heaven. 
Farewell ! With my song through the clouds I soar, 
I pierce the blue skies — I am earth's no more 1 " 



24. Beheading of St. John. 

ALTHOUGH the doctrine of our blessed Saviour was so 
pure in its principles, so conformable to reason, so con- 
firmed by miracles, and so pleasing in its promises of eternal 
glory, yet few embraced it. A general skepticism and hard- 
ness of heart prevailed in the cities of Judea, and in no city 
more than in that of Nazareth. 

2. It was natural to imagine that the Nazarenes would 
have thought themselves in some sort honored by the fame of 
one who had lived and grown up among them, and that they 
would have cherished him as the most valuable of their citi- 
zens. Their behavior was, however, the very opposite. They 
had seen and conversed with him from his youth ; they knew 
no learning that he had acquired ; in his person they discovered 
nothing that set him above the common level ; in his mother 
and relations they beheld no title that made him superior to 
the poorer class of the people. 

3. To his doctrine, therefore, they would give no credit, nor 
would they allow his miracles which they had not seen. The 
great reputation which Jesus had acquired among others made 
them jealous, and their jealousy grew into a violent hatred 
agains^i him. 

4. They laid hands upon him, and led him to the steep 
point of the rock on which their town was built, with an inten- 
tion to throw him headlong down. But the hour for Jesus to 
die was not yet come, and no human malice could advance it. 
He slipped out of their hands, and walked away through the 
midst of them. 

5. This perverse incredulity of the Nazarenes hindered Jesus 
from working any miracles among them, excepting the cure of 



DECOLLATION OF ST. JOHN. 151 

some of their sick, which he did by imposing his hands upon 
them. On his return from Nazareth, he was informed of John 
the Baptist's death. 

6. A short time before this St. John had been cast into 
prison on account of the reprimand he gave to King Herod, 
for his incestuous connection with Herodias, the wife of his 
brother Philip. Herodias had often soHcited the king to have 
him put to death, and the king as often refused to consent, 
not only from a principle of esteem for the holy man, but like- 
wise from a fear of the people's resentment, for they considered 
the Baptist as a wonderful prophet. 

1. But Herod's imprudence betrayed him soon after to com- 
mit the bloody deed. He celebrated his birthday with great 
pomp and splendor ; a grand entertainment was prepared, 
and the chief men of Galilee were invited to attend ; the 
daughter of Herodias was introduced before the company, and 
desired to dance. 

8. The manner of her performance so pleased the king, that 
he rashly promised upon oath to give whatsoever she should 
ask, though it were half his kingdom. The girl immediately 
left the room to consult her mother what she should ask. 
"Go and ask for the head of John the Baptist," repUed the 
adulteress. 

9. The girl ran back to Herod, and desired that he would 
forthwith give her on a dish the head of John the Baptist. 
Struck at the unnatural request, the king was sorry for the 
rash promise he had made, but, out of respect to the company, 
resolved to keep his oath, not to displease the daughter of 
Herodias. He therefore ordered an executioner to go forth- 
with to the prison, and cut off the Baptist's head. The head 
was given in a dish to the girl, and the girl presented it to 
her mother. 

10. Thus was the great precursor of our Lord impiously 
slain in the vigor of hfe ; thus was John murdered by the 
sword of Herod, who had always admired and esteemed him 
for his purity of doctrine and sanctity of morals. Herod fell 
not all at once into the enormity of guUt ; by gradual steps he 
had advanced towards the depth of crime ; one excees had 



152 THE THIBD BEADER. 

led him on to another ; lustful passion opened the way to 
incest, and incest plunged him into murder. 

11. Herod was permitted to take away the life of St. John 
the Baptist, greater than whom no phophet had ever risen 
among the sons of women. 

12. The life of that holy man was sacrificed to the capricious 
revenge of a wicked woman ; it was sacrificed for a dance. 
Hence we see, says St. Gregory, in what light we are to con- 
sider this mortal life, which is so hable to misfortunes, and so 
constantly harassed by the suspicions, by the hatred, and the 
slanders of wicked men. 

13. It is to a future life that we should constantly look up ; 
a life which neither the tongue of slander, nor the sword of 
persecution can affect. Tyrants may rage and threaten ; pain 
may crumble these mortal bodies into dust ; but a passing 
death will open us an entrance into that heavenly kingdom, 
where the blessed know no change and fear no decay. 



^•I 



25. Saturday Aeternoon. 

LOYE to look on a scene like this, 
Of wild and careless play, 
And persuade myself that I am not old, 

And my locks are not yet gray ; 
For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart, 

And makes his pulses fly. 
To catch the thrill of a happy voice. 

And the light of a pleasant eye. 

I have walk'd the world for fourscore years : 

And they say that I am old, 
That my heart is ripe for the reaper Death, 

And my years are well-nigh told. 
It is very true ; it is very true ; 

Vm old, and *M 'bide my time :" 
But my heart will leap at a scene like this, 

And I half renew my prime. 



SATUKDAY AFTERNOON. 



153 



3. Play on, play on ; I am with you there, 
In the midst of your merry ring ; 
I can feel the thrill of the daring jump, 
And the rush of the breathless swing. 




I hide with you in the fragrant hay, 
And I whoop the smother'd call. 

And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, 
And I care not for the fall. » 



4. I am willing to die when my time shall come, 
And I shall be glad to go ; 



154 THE THIRD READEE. 

For the world at best is a weary place, 
And my pulse is getting low ; 

But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail 
In treading its gloomy way ; 

And it wiles my heart from its dreariness, 
To see the young so gay. 



26. Learning and Accomplishments not inconsistent 
WITH Good Housekeeping. 

[Explanatory Note. — Mr. Eenny tells this story; Marcella is Mr. 
Eenny's wife ; Clara is their daughter. Justin and Laura are Mr. 
and Mrs. Hubert, who have just come on a visit to Mr. and Mrs. 
Kenny, and Mary is their daughter. Aunt Kobert is the aunt of 
Mr. and Mrs. Eenny.] 

MARY has accompanied her parents ; her first appearance 
gives a painful impression. She is small, thin, and very 
sallow : almost ugly. Laura and Justin presented her to me 
without a word, and during the first two days, I took scarcely 
any notice of her ; but the other morning, I heard her con- 
versing in German with her father ; and I know that she is 
acquainted with the Enghsh and Spanish languages. 

2. Marcella obhged her to seat herself at the piano ; and 
we soon perceived that she has already far outstripped her 
mother. She has also learned all that can be taught to one 
of her age, of geography, and natural and political history. 
Clara is in a state of bewilderment at such an amount of 
learning, and I am still more surprised at so much modesty. 

3. The latter, however, does not soften Aunt Robert ; who, 
when she was informed of the number of Mary's acquirements, 
only shook her head. Aunt Robert's prejudices, on that 
point, are not to be overcome. She is suspicious, almost to 
hostility, of all those who are, what she styles, learned women. 
According to her, literary studies are perfectly incompatible 
with household duties. No one can understand orthography 



MlARNINa AND ACCOMPLISHMENTS. 155 

and backstitch too, or speak any other language but our 
mother tongue, and superintend a roast. 

4. "Oh, yes I I have seen your Uttle prodigies before," she 
said to Marcella, yesterday, "who talk about revolutions in 
China with their stockings in holes ; who read poetry, and yet 
cannot understand the receipt of a pudding ; who will describe 
with accuracy the costume of the African savage, and do not 
know how to trim a cap I do not talk to me of such women, 
my dear girl ; the very best they are good for, is to be lodge- 
keepers to the French Academy." 

5. Notwithstanding these strong prejudices, she treats Mary 
like everybody else ; that is to say, with her usual rude, fa- 
miUar kindness ; for Aunt Robert compares herself to a thorny 
gooseberry bush : to get at the fruit, people must not mind a 
few scratches. 

6. For the rest, these peculiarities do not seem to disturb 
the young girl in the least : she laughs at the old lady's 
whims, and is the first to offer to carry her bag, or fetch her 
a footstool. I have reason to believe the good aunt is very 
fond of her. "After all," she said, the other day, "there 
really is good in the child, and it is not her fault if she has 
been taught more grammar than cookery." 

t. Consequently, she has been very anxious to make her 
feel the inconveniences of her education. Yesterday she in- 
vited us to dine with the Huberts at her house, and begged 
Mary to come early and assist her in her preparations. De- 
spite the ironical manner in which the latter invitation was 
given, it was accepted. 

8. Aunt Robert was determined to display before the eyes 
of the little blue-stocking all the splendor of her house-keep- 
ing royalty ; and Mary found her enveloped in a large apron 
with an ample bib, her sleeves turned up above her elbows, 
busy making a favorite dish. 

9. Now in the opinion of the best judges, this dish was the 
pinnacle of glory in Aunt Roberts' culinary art. 

She beckoned to Mary to approach, and after explaining 
to her the particular merits and difficulties of her dish, pro- 
ceeded with her cookery. 



156 THE THIRD READER. 

10. "You see, my dear," mixing, in her motherly way, 
moral precepts and practical explanations, " one of the chief 
duties of a woman is to make the most of every thing. — 
(Keep the whites of the eggs for another occasion.) — Life is 
made for something more than learning to conjugate the verbs 
I walk, or I talh ; to assure to those around us health and 
comfort — (don't put in too much lemon juice); — when one 
makes it a principle to be useful — (the crust is beginning to 
rise), — it is sufficient to keep peace and a good conscience — 
(we put the whole into a mould), — and we live happily — (in 
the Dutch oven)." 

11. Mary smihngly looked on, not a little bewildered by the 
odd mixture of philosophy and cookery ; and this time, alas I 
the first most certainly injured the second ; for a thing unheard 
of before, just when Aunt Kobert, being of opinion that it 
was done enough, with serene confidence opened the oven 
door, intending to display before her pupil's eyes her sparkling 
pyramid, she found nothing but a crumbled ruin blackened by 
the fire ! 

12. The disappointment was the greater, because complete- 
ly unexpected. Besides, dinner-time was drawing near, and 
the dish would have taken more time to make again than she 
could spare 



27. Learning and Accomplishments — continued. 

AUNT ROBERT had to go out and make several purchases, 
to look after the servant, a new hand whose experience 
she more than doubted, in uncovering the drawing-room fur- 
niture and laying the cloth. She was speaking with resigned 
repugnance of resorting to the direful extremity of applying to 
the neighboring pastry-cook, when Mary quietly proposed to 
replace the missing dish with one of her own making. 

2. Aunt Robert actually started with surprise. 

"What ! my dear child 1 do you know what you are say- 
ing?" she asked ; "is it possible that you can make any thing 



LEARNING AND ACCOMPLISHMENTS. 157 

fit to eat ? you, wlio can speak all the languages of the Tower 
of Babel I" 

"It is a family pudding, which always succeeds, and does 
not take long to make," replied the young girl. 

3. " Pudding 1 " repeated Aunt Robert a little contempt- 
uously. "Ah! I understand; it is some foreign dish, like 
what they make in England. Yery well. Miss Huburt ! let 
lus see what you will produce ; the servant shall supply you 
with any ingredients you may require." 

4. But Mary assured her she had all she wanted, and set 
about it without more delay. Half an hour after, when Aunt 
Kobert returned from making her purchases, she found the 
pudding ready for the table. 

5. Its appearance was such as to strike the eye of a judge. 
After examining it well, and inhaling the odor, she gave a 
little nod of satisfaction. "There is nothing to be said against 
its looks," said she. " I should only like now to see how it 
tastes ; for you know ' that the proof of the pudding lies in 
the eating.' However, I see, my dear child, you are not 
without usefulness ; now come and help me with the dessert.^' 

6. But a fresh trouble arose. The servant had broken one 
of the china baskets, indispensable to the service ; and there 
remained only the broken pieces on the sideboard. Aunt 
Robert, accustomed to the old-fashioned arrangement, could 
do nothing without her basket ; but Mary, who with her 
mother was obliged to resort to all sorts of expedients in their 
humble cottage, where the richness of taste hid the poverty of 
their means, declared she could arrange it all. She ran to the 
garden, whence she gathered leaves, flowers, and fruits, with 
which she dressed the table, and hid the.discrepancy occasioned 
by the missing basket. 

7. The fine damask. Aunt Robert's especial pride, the old- 
fashioned crystal, the many-colored china, and antique plate, 
were all most elegantly and tastefully arranged ; and then 
Mary added all the graceful fancies which impart so much to 
the elegance of a well-arranged table, down from the butter in 
shells to bouquets of radishes. Aunt Robert was bewildered ; 
but she was still more so, when all the dishes, being served at 



158 THE THIKD BEADER. 

once, covered the table, and, as she said, "transformed her 
homely dinner into a Belshazzar's feast." 

8. " Ah, you sly httle puss 1 " she exclaimed, as, thoroughly 
conquered, she warmly embraced her; "who would have 
thought there was all this hidden in you ! " The pudding was 
unanimously pronounced excellent ; and Aunt Robert did not 
fail to relate the history of her favorite dish. 

9. From this moment, her opinion of Mary underwent a 
striking change. She owned to me in a half whisper at 
dessert, that she had been too severe ; and that our friend 
had not neglected the "essential" as much as she had at first 
imagined. Still she was strongly opposed to "the gift of 
tongues," which she maintained, could be available only to 
the Apostles. 

10. At last we rose from the table, and adjourned to the 
little sitting-room ; where, while waiting the adveij^t of tea, 
each lady brought out her sewing or embroidery, and Aunt 
Robert sought the mittens she was knitting. Unfortunately, 
they had not escaped the general disturbance ; a needle had 
fallen out, which was one of the little domestic miseries our 
worthy aunt felt most acutely. She uttered a slight exclamar 
tion of despair, and went off in search of her spectacles ; but 
on her return she found her knitting in the hands of Mary. 

11. "Ah ! you little puss, what are you about there !" she 
cried in alarm. Mary returned her the mitten with a smile, 
and, on looking, she found the stitches taken up, and the pat- 
tern continued. 

She regarded Mary with a stupefied look ; then turning ^to 
me, she exclaimed in a tone of the highest admiration, " She 
can knit, too ! Ah, my friend, I retract my judgment ; there 
is nothing wantmg ; her education is complete." 




ANECDOTES OF THE TIGER. 



159 




28. Anecdotes of the Tiger. 



LIKE other voracious beasts, nothing will deter the tiger 
from attempting to obtain his prey when hungry, however 
apparent may be the danger he risks. A Scotchman, who 
was a soldier in India, assured us, that while the army was on 
its march, in broad day, an enormously large tiger sprang from 
a jungle which they were passing, and carried off one of the 
men in his mouth, with as much ease "as a cat would carry 
off a mouse," and was out of sight before any effort could be 
made for the recovery of the poor man, so quick and unex- 
pected was the whole occurrence. 

2. The postmen of India, who are called dawks, and who 
travel on foot, are frequently seized by these creatures, as are 
those who escort them ; nor can any thing be more dangerous 
than for persons to venture, unless it be in well-armed bodies, 
within their blood-stained neighborhoods. 

3. In 1819, an official report was presented to the Indian 
government, in which it was stated that eighty-four persons 
had been seized and carried off by tigers, from one district only, 
in the course of the preceding year. It may be supposed how 
much the possessions of the East India Company must have 



160 THE THIRD READER. 

been infested with these depredators, when the amount of pre- 
miums bestowed on those persons who slew them in the year 
1808, is stated to have been $15,000. 

4. Like most other animals, the tigress is attached strongly 
to her young. In the "Oriental Field Sports," Captain Wil- 
hamson tells us that some peasants in India had found four 
cubs in the absence of their mother, and brought him two, 
which he placed in a stable. After howling for several nights, 
the tigress approached and responded to them ; and it was 
deemed prudent to let them out, lest their mamma should 
break in ; the next morning she carried them off. 

5. The tiger, like all animals when brought under the con- 
trol of man, will evince signs of partiality towards his keeper, 
or others accustomed to treat him kindly. Still, we think the 
confidence of keepers is sometimes carried too far, as there 
are times when the natural instinct of savage brutes will reign 
paramount, in despite of their training. 

6. The imprudence, however, of strangers attempting to 
take any freedom with such creatures, cannot be too often nor 
too deeply impressed upon the minds of our readers — since, 
from inattention to it, how many fatal accidents have occurred ! 
A schoolmaster went to see a menagerie, where, admiring the 
beauty of the tiger, he offered it an apple. The creature seized 
his hand, dragging it into the cage ; and although, by the 
efforts of the keepers the brute was compelled to let it go, yet 
it was so dreadfully lacerated that amputation became neces- 
sary ; and, in a few days afterwards, the poor man was a corpse. 

T. People in the East are usually fond of witnessing the 
combats of wild and savage animals ; and we will now give 
our readers, not only an illustration of their savage tastes, 
but also the invincible courage of their fellow-beings, who run 
the risk of a dreadful death to gratify them. The statement 
from which we are about to quote is narrated by a gentleman 
who was invited by the rajah of Coorg to become a spectator 
of his cruel and terrific amusements. Coorg is a fine prov- 
ince of Hindostan, which our youthful readers will discover 
upon their maps, situated in the western Ghaut mountains of 
that vast region. 



ANECDOTES OF THE TIGER. 161 

8. The rajah, with true Asiatic Yanity, prided himself upon 
the number of savage beasts he possessed ; having, it was said, 
many lions and tigers which had been brought to perfect sub- 
mission, besides others which were kept for combating. 

On the appointed day of the exhibition in question, the rajah 
with his court, and other persons, were seated in a gallery, 
below which was an arena of a hundred yards square, where 
the sports commenced. After some engagements of inferior 
animals had ended, a man entered the arena almost naked, 
having on a pair of trowsers only, that just covered his hips, 
and reached scarcely half way down his thighs. 

9. He was tall, and though slight, yet muscular, strong, 
and active. His body glistened with the oil with which it had 
been rubbed to add to the phability of his limbs ; and in his 
hand he held what is called a Coorg-knife, somewhat in shape 
like a plough-share, about two feet long, three or four inches 
wide, and tapering a little towards the handle : it is heavy, 
and first swung round the head by the person who uses it, by 
which means a blow is inflicted with a force that is truly won- 
derful. The Hindoo, who now appeared, had volunteered to 
fight with a tiger ; and, having brandished his weapon, " the 
expression of his countenance," says the writer, "was really 
sublime when he gave the signal for the animal to be let loose ; 
it was the very concentration of moral energy — the index of 
a single and settled resolution ! " 

10. Men, who were placed above, at his signal raised the 
bars of a cage from which an immense royal tiger sprang before 
him with a half-stifled growl, and waving its tail, upon which 
it erected the hair as a cat does when she is angry. It looked 
at its opponent, who met it with his eye, and then at all 
around ; but uneasy at its novel situation, it leaped again into 
its cage, from which the keepers above not being able again 
to force it, let fall the bars by which it was secured. 

11. Some crackers were tied to the creature's tail, which 
projected through the bars ; to these the man apphed a lighted 
match that had been handed to him, and the bars were again 
drawn up. The tiger now bounded out of its den in a state 
of frantic excitement, until the crackers having exploded, it 



162 THE THIKD READER. 

crouched snarling in a corner, like a cat when she is annoyed — 
the bars of its cage had been let down ; and the brave Hindoo, 
who had been watching its motions, now slowly and fearlessly 
advanced towards it. 

12, Thus roused, the hairs of its body became erect, and its 
tail (Uke the tail of an angry cat) twice its usual size ; yet, as 
the man slowly advanced, it again retreated, keeping its front 
towards its brave opponent, who still advanced with the same 
slow and measured step as before. Suddenly he stopped ; and 
now paced steadily backwards, his eyes still fixed on his enemy, 
which, as he thus retreated, raised itself to its extreme height, 
lashed its tail, and arched its back, in preparation for making 
a spring. The Hindoo still moved gently backwards, and when 
the tiger could no longer see the expression of his eye, it 
bounded towards him with a growl. 

13, With the swiftness of lightning, however, he sprang on 
one side, whirled his ponderous knife around his head, and 
when the animal's feet reached the ground, it felt the full force 
of the irresistible blow designed for it, just above the point of 
the hinder leg, the bone of which it completely snapped in two. 

14, The Hindoo rethed a few paces, and the wounded beast, 
disabled from making another spring, roaring with pain, rushed 
towards him upon its three legs (the other hanging by the skin 
only) in a state of reckless excitement, while its courageous 
foe stood calm and determined, awaiting the shock, poising his 
trusty weapon above his head, and which, when his opponent 
had got within his reach, he struck with such force into its 
skull, as severed it from ear to ear, and the conquered brute 
fell dead at his feet. He then calmly drew his knife across 
the tiger's skin to cleanse it of the blood ; made a dignified 
''salaam," or bow, to the rajah, and, amidst the loud plaudits 
of the spectators, withdrew. 




THE FOUNTAIN. 163 



29. The Fountain. 

1. TNTO the sunshine 
i Full of light, 
Leaping and flashing, 

From morn to night ; 

2. Into the moonlight 

Whiter than snow, 
Waving so flower-hke 
When the winds blow s 

3. Into the starlight, 

Rushing in spray, 
Happy at midnight 
Happy by day ; 

4. Ever in motion 

Blithesome and cheery, 
Still climbing heavenward, 
Never aweary ; 

5. Glad of all weathers 

Still seeming best, 

Upward or downward 

Motion thy rest ; 

6. Full of a nature 

Nothing can tame, 
Changed every moment, 
Ever the same ; 

1. Ceaseless aspiring, 
Ceaseless content, 
Darkness or smishine 
Thy element ; 



164 THE THIBD HEADER. 

8. Glorious fountain ! 
Let my heart be 
Fresh, changeful, constant, 
Upward like thee. 



30. Benedict Aenold. 

THERE was a day when Talleyrand arrived in Havre direct 
from Paris. It was the darkest hour of the French Rev- 
olution. Pursued by the bloodhounds of the Reign of Terror, 
stripped of every wi'eck of property or power, Talleyrand se- 
cured a passage to America, in a ship about to sail. He was 
a beggar and a wanderer to a strange land,. to earn his bread 
by daily labor. 

2. "Is there an American staying at your house ?" he asked 
the landlord of the hotel. " I am bound to cross the water, 
and would like a letter to a person of influence in the New 
World." 

The landlord hesitated a moment, then replied, " There is 
a gentleman up-stau's, either from America or Britain, but 
whether an American or an Englishman, I cannot tell." 

He pointed the way, and Talleyrand, who in his life was 
bishop, prince, and prime minister, ascended the stau-s. A 
miserable suppliant, he stood before the stranger's door, 
knocked, and entered. 

3. In the far comer of the dimly-hghted room, sat a man 
of some fifty years ; his arms folded, and his head bowed on 
his breast. From a window directly opposite, a flood of light 
poured over his forehead. His eyes looked from beneath the 
downcast brows, and gazed on Talleyrand's face with a pecu- 
liar and searching expression. His face was striking in out- 
line ; the mouth and chin indicative of an iron will. His form, 
vigorous, even with the snows of fifty, was clad in a dark, but 
rich and distinguished costume. 

4. Talleyrand advanced, stated that he was a fugitive, and, 
under the impression that the gentleman before him was an 
American, he solidted his kind and feeling offices. He poured 



BENEDICT ARNOLD. 165 

forth his history in eloquent French and broken Enghsh ; " I 
am a wanderer and an exile. I am forced to fly to the New 
World, without a friend or a home. You are an American ! 
Give me, then, I beseech you, a letter of yours, so that I may 
be able to earn my bread. I am willing to toil in any manner ; 
the scenes of Paris have seized me with such horror, that a 
life of labor would be a paradise to a career of luxury in 
France. You will give me a letter to one of your friends ? 
A gentleman like yourself has doubtless many friends." 

5. The strange gentleman rose. With a look that Talley- 
rand never forgot, he retreated towards the door of the next 
chamber; his eyes looking still from beneath his darkened 
brow. He spoke as he retreated backwards : his voice was 
full of meaning. *' I am the only man born in the New World 
who can raise his hand to God and say, I have not a friend, 
not one, in all America ! " Talleyrand never forgot the over- 
whelming sadness of the look which accompanied these words. 

6. "Who are you?" he cried, as the strange man retreated 
to the next room ; " your name ? " 

" My name," he replied, with a smile that had more mockery 
than joy in its convulsive expression, — "my name is Benedict 
Arnold I" 

He was gone ; Talleyrand sank into his chair, gasping the 
words, " Arnold, the Traitor ! " 

T. Thus, you see, he wandered over the earth, another 
Cain, with the wanderer's mark upon his brow. Even in that 
secluded room, in that inn at Havre, his crimes found him out, 
and forced him to tell his name : that name the synonym of 
infamy. 

The last twenty years of his life are CQvered with a cloud, 
from whose darkness but a few gleams of hght flash out upon 
the page of history. 

8. The manner of his death is not exactly known ; but we 
cannot doubt that he died utterly friendless ; that remorse 
pursued him to the grave, whispering John Andre ! in his ear ; 
and that the memory of his course of glory gnawed like a 
canker at his heart, murmuring, forever, "True to your coun- 
try, what might you have been, oh ! Arnold, the traitor I " 



166 



THE THIRD EEADEE. 




31. KUTH AND NOEMI. 



THE short, but interesting story of Ruth, happened under 
the Judges, and makes a book of itself. The sacred 
writer tells us, that at the time when the land of Israel was 
sorely vexed by famine, a certain man, by name Elimelech, of 
the town of Bethlehem, retired with Noemi his wife and two 
sons into the country of the Moabites, not to starve in his own. 



RUTH AND NOEMI. 167 

2. After his death, Noemi married her two sons to two 
young women of that country, whose names were Arpha and 
Ruth. They lived ten years together, but no issue came from 
either of the two marriages ; the two brothers died, and left 
their disconsolate mother in a childless widowhood. Having 
no consolation to expect in the land of Moab, Noemi resolved 
to return into her own country, where the famine was no 
bnger felt. 

3. She made her purpose known to Arpha and Ruth ; they 
both desired to accompany her to Bethlehem. She begged 
they would not think of going with a friendless widow, 
from whom they had neither fortune nor comfort to expect, 
but to return to their relations, from whom they might meet 
with both ; she made them understand, that by going with 
her, they would but throw themselves into fresh miseries ; 
that her present distress was sufficient without any other 
addition ; that to see them suffer on her account would in- 
crease her pain ; and that their sufferings would be more 
afflicting to her than her own. 

4. Arpha yielded to Noemi's reasons, tenderly embraced 
her, and returned to Moab. Ruth was too much attached to 
her mother-in-law to think of leaving her ; with the greatest 
eagerness she begged that they might be never separated from 
each other. "I will accompany you," said she, '* wherever you 
shall go, and with you I will forever dwell ; your people shall 
be my people, and your God shall be mine ; in the same land 
with you I will hve and die, and nothing but death shall ever 
part us." 

5. Noemi could not refuse so affectionate and so resolute a 
request; she consented to Ruth's going with her, and they 
both came to Bethlehem. It was then harvest time, and 
Ruth desired leave of her mother to go into the neighboring 
fields, where she might glean some relief in their scanty 
circumstances. Kind Providence conducted her into a field 
belonging to Booz, a near relation of Elimelech, Noemi's for- 
mer husband. 

6. Her remarkable diligence drew the eyes of the reapers, 
and Booz, from the favorable account he had received from 



168 THE THIBD KEADEE. 

his overseer, of Ruth's dutiful behavior to her mother, and 
of her diligence at work, ordered every kindness and civility to 
be shown her. He bade his reapers scatter the corn on pur- 
pose, and leave Ruth a sufi&cient quantity to requite her amply 
for the pains she took; if she should be wilhng to reap, he 
told them not to hinder her, and insisted upon her eating and 
drinking with his servants. 

7. This goodness of Booz to Ruth has been considered by 
the holy fathers as an emblem of that which Jesus Christ has 
since shown to his Church. Booz did not disdain to take 
notice of a poor stranger ; neither the present meanness of her 
appearance, nor the past errors of her rehgious sentiments, 
excluded her from the acts of his humanity. 

8. Ruth's steady attachment to Noemi is an example of 
that unshaken fidelity which every Christian owes to Jesus 
Christ and his Church. He that loves his father, mother, or 
his kindred, more than me, says our blessed Saviour, is not 
worthy of me. Whoever will come after me let him deny 
himself, take up his cross, and so follow me. 

9. If in following Jesus Christ, worldly advantages must 
be sometimes given up, and hardships undergone, an upright 
mind and a peaceful conscience will confer an inward satisfac- 
tion, which, without virtue, no riches can purchase, and no 
power bestow. 

10. Noemi's poverty was to Ruth of more advantage than 
the wealth of Moab ; and they who, by a firm and generous 
attachment, stand steady to the principles of duty, will also 
receive their reward in the end. They may suffer, they may 
be oppressed for a time ; the hour of their delivery hastens on, 
an eternity of joys is already prepared to console their pains, 
and to crown their patience. 




^•0 



FLOWEES. 169 



32. Flowers. 

H, they look upward in every place 
Through this beautiful world of ours, 
And dear as a smile on an old friend's face 

Is the smile of the bright, bright flowers I 
They tell us of wanderings by woods and streams ; 

They tell us of lanes and trees ; 
But the children of showers and suuny beams 
Have lovelier tales than these — 

The bright, bright flowers I 

2. They tell of a season when men were not, 

When earth was by angels trod, 
And leaves and flowers in every spot 

Burst forth at the call of God ; 
When spirits, singing their hymns at even, 

Wander'd by wood and glade ; 
And the Lord look'd down from the highest heaven 

And bless'd what he had made — 

The bright, bright flowers. 

3. That blessing remaineth upon them still, 

Though often the storm-cloud lowers, 
And frequent tempests may soil and chill 

The gayest of earth's fair flowers. 
When Sin and Death, with then* sister Grief, 

Made a home in the hearts of men. 
The blessing of God on each tender leaf 

Preserved in their beauty, then, — 

The bright, bright flowers. 

4. The lily is lovely as when it slept 

On the waters of Eden's lake ; 
The woodbine breathes sweetly as when it crept, 
In Eden from brake to brake. 
8, 



170 THE THIRD EEADER. 

Tliey were left as a proof of the loveliness 
Of Adam and Eve's first home ; 

They are here as a type of the joys that bless 
The just in the world to come — 

The bright, bright flowers. 



33. The Scholar of the Eosary. 

IN a certain district in the south of France, there hved a 
noble lady, who governed her household and family in all 
holy discipline, and who was among the first to join the con- 
fraternity in honor of the mother of God, on its re-establish- 
ment in that country. 

2. She had an only child, named Bernard ; a boy whose 
disposition was as noble as his birth, although indeed he was 
rather remarkable for the angelic innocence of his life than 
for the endowment of his mind. He was sent by his mother 
to study at a school in the neighborhood, whence he was 
wont to return home every evening, for she could not resolve 
to trust him away from her own care while he was still so 
young. 

3. It does not seem that Bernard was in any way deficient 
in ability ; and he even made considerable progress in some 
of his studies, especially in grammar ; but he was wanting in 
quickness and liveliness of imagination ; and the composition 
of French and Latin verses, which was one of the common 
school-tasks of his class, became a difiiculty too great for him. 

4. One evening when he returned home, after a day of un- 
usual trouble, he sat down in a pensive mood on the steps 
leading into the garden, and leaning his head on his hand, he 
gave himself up to very sorrowful reflections. He knew how 
much his mother wished that he should grow up a learned 
man, and then he was at the bottom of his class, with the 
reputation of being the dunce of the school ; and all because 
he was not born a poet : it was certainly a little hard. 

5. Poets, as all know, are born, not made ; and it seemed' 



THE SCHOLAR OF THE EOSAEY. 171 

an unreasonable thing to spend so many a long day in trying 
to become what nature had not made him. 

" Bernard," said his mother — and at the sound of that 
gentle voice the poor boy started to his feet — " what is the 
matter ? Your hair is hanging about your eyes, your cap is 
on the ground, and I see something very like tears on those 
white cheeks." 

6. Bernard hung his head, but did not say a word. " Do 
you not speak, my child?" continued his mother: "you were 
never wont to hide your sorrows thus ; or is it, indeed, that 
you have fallen into some grievous fault at school, and fear to 
declare it to me ? " 

" No, mother," replied Bernard, " they call me dunce, and 
fool, and they speak truly : but though now I could cry, as 
though my heart would break, it is for no fault that you would 
deem a grievous one ; it is that I am not a poet." And with 
these words, Bernard hid his face on his mother's knee, and 
sobbed aloud. 

T. "A poet, child!" said his mother; "is that your only 
trouble ? Heard you ever that poets were happier or better 
than other men, that you should crave a gift that brings little 
ease, and ofttimes less of grace : covet the better gifts, Bernard 
for this is hardly worth your tears ; a holy heart and a spotless 
faith were fitter things to weep after." 

8. "But, mother," repHed Bernard, earnestly, "you know 
not how the case stands with boys : we have to learn so many 
things you would marvel to find the use for ; and among them 
all there is none so strange to fit a meaning to as the making 
of these verses. 

9. "And yet Master Roland says I am a dunce if I do not 
make them ; and shall abide as I am, the lag-last of the school, 
till I better know how to scan my lines, and have learnt the 
difference between a trochee and a spondee : and that," he 
added, with a heavy sigh, " I shall never learn." 

10. " Bernard," said his mother, " I do not think I can help 
to mend your verses, but I may chance to be able to mend 
your courage. It was but the other day that Master Alan 
told me of a student whose books were as grievous to him as 



172 THE THIED KEADER. 

any verses of yours can be, and yet he found tlie way not only 
to read them, but to write them too ; and died a great doctor 
and professor in the university." 

11. "And what was his way ?" asked Bernard. " Perhaps 
his books were written in prose ; it might have been different 
if they had been poetry," 

" His way was a very simple one," rephed his mother ; "he 
asked our dear Lady's help, and every day said the rosary in 
her honor. I think there is httle to hinder you from doing 
the same. 

12. " Master Alan has given you a rosary, though I see not 
that you often use it ; take it before her altar, every morning 
before you go to school, and say the prayers as he has taught 
you ; and remember that no one ever prayed to Mary without 
obtaining rehef " 

13. Bernard was not slow in following his mother's counsel ; 
and not content with saying part of the rosary, he every day 
recited the entire fifteen mysteries on his knees before the 
image on our lady's altar. 

14. Nor was it long before a singular change was observed 
in the boy ; not only did his former dulness and heaviness of 
capacity gradually disappear, but a certain depth of feeling and 
gracefulness of imagery was displayed in his school-verses, 
that placed them very far above the ordinary standard of such 
productions. 



84. The Scholar of the Eosary — continued, 

THE masters marvelled at the change, and said many learned 
things about the development of the understanding ; the 
scholars wondered also, and soon came to beseech Bernard to 
help them in their tasks ; as for the boy himself, the light in 
his soul had stolen into it with such a soft and quiet gentle- 
ness, that he hardly knew the change. 

2. When they praised and questioned him as to whence he 
drew his thoughts and imagery, he was wont to answer, with 
a wondering simplicity, that any one might "do the same, for 



THE SCHOLAR OP THE ROSAEY. 173 

he found it all in the rosary. This reply, which he constantly 
gave, soon became talked about among the rest, and gained 
him the title, among his companions, of the Scholar of the 
Rosary. 

3. Every one now predicted great things of Bernard ; he 
was the head of his class and of the school ; the highest 
awards of learning, he was told, were now within his grasp ; 
with that delicate and subtle fancy, and that solidity of under- 
standing, he might aspire to any thing ; the professor's chair 
or the doctor's cap would never surely be denied him. 

4. But their hopes and expectations were not to be realized ; 
for the scholar of Mary a higher and very different distinction 
was in store. One day he came home as usual, and complained 
of an aching pain in his eyes ; before the morning the inflam- 
mation had increased to such a degree that he could not bear 
the light, and was obliged to keep his bed in a darkened room, 
where, spite of every care and remedy which his mother's ten- 
derness could bestow, he suffered the greatest pain. 

5. For two months he lay in this state, while the disease 
gradually assumed a more dangerous character. The physi- 
cians desired that every ray of daylight should be excluded 
from his room, and the utmost care taken to preserve the 
slightest object from irritating the eye ; an order which was 
strictly obeyed. 

6. Nevertheless, in spite of his pain and increasing weakness, 
nothmg prevented Bernard fi'om fulfilling his customary pray- 
ers. Every day, as usual, he recited the fifteen mysteries of 
the rosary, and comforted his mother, when she grieved over 
the blindness that threatened him, by saying his devotion was 
one which needed neither book nor daylight to help it, but 
only the familiar touch of those dear beads that never left his 
neck. 

*T. Alas ! blindness was before long not the only evil she had 
to dread ; it was soon evident that the malady had reached a 
fatal form, which no human skill could avail to remedy. Ber- 
nard was to die ; all the great hopes excited by his newly dis- 
played talents vanished into thin air ; and those whose tongues 
had been so busy with his wonderful genius were now loud in 



174 THE THIRD READER. 

deploring the loss of one from whom so brilliant a career might 
have been expected. 

8. His mother entered the room to prepare him for the 
coming of the priest ; and as she did so, she desired the attend- 
ant to bring a candle into the still-darkened chamber. 

"What need of a candle ?" said the boy ; "tell them that 
it is not wanted." 

9. "It is for the priest, my child," she replied. "You will 
try and bear the hght for a few minutes ; for the good father 
has come to hear your confession, and he could not see to 
enter without a light." 

"But there is light," he replied; "the room is full of it, 
and has never been dark to me. I wonder that you do not 
see it." 

10. "What light ?" asked the priest, who was by this time 
bending over him. "Your mother and I are standing here, 
but to our eyes the room is darkened still." 

"It is from our Lady," rephed the boy ; "she is here by my 
bedside, and the rays are shining from her, and make it day. 
There has never been darkness here since I have been ill." 

11. The priest felt an awe stealing over him, and involun- 
tarily bowed his head towards the spot indicated by the child. 

"And does that hght hurt your eyes?" he asked; "you 
could not bear the daylight." 

"It is joy," answered Bernard, faintly; "joy and glory: 
the sorrow is aU gone now I " and the priest saw that in his 
last words he was stUl thmking of the rosary. And so he 
died ; and those whom he left needed not the evidence of mir- 
acles to assure them that the scholar of Mary had been taken 
to the fulness of that glory, something of whose radiance had 
thus rested over his dying bed. 




THE MONTH OF MAY, 



175 




35. The Month of May. 



THIS is the sweet, the balmy month of May 1 — the season 
when nature comes forth in all her gayest attire, robed 
in violet and green, her brow encircled with garlands of 
flowers. To children, it is a season of mirth ; — to all a time 
of gladness. 

During this month the Church, in a special manner, invites 
her children to honor and invoke the patronage of the immac- 
ulate Queen of Heaven, in that beautiful devotion of "the 
Month of Mary." 



176 THE THIED READER. 

2. As this devotion in honor of the holy Yirgin is now so 
nniyersally practised, we give the following sketch of its origin 
for the instruction and edification of our young readers : 

3. During the early part of the sixteenth century, Father 
Lalomia, a professor in one of the Jesuit colleges in Italy, 
proposed to the pupils of his class to perform each day during 
the month of May, some special devotion to the mother of 
God. The happy suggestion was joyfully seconded by his 
pupils, and accordingly, a statue of the Blessed Virgin was 
placed upon a table at the end of the class-room. Before this 
humble altar, which they fervently decorated with flowers, the 
venerable father and his pupils daily assembled and recited 
certain prayers in honor of Mary, and made a short meditation 
on the virtues of her life. 

4. The fathers of the college remarked with much gratifica- 
tion the fervent piety which, from that period, distinguished 
the members of Father Lalomia's class — an evidence how 
pleasing this devotion was to the mother of God. On the re- 
turning May, the devotion which commenced in a single class, 
was extended to the whole college. The effect was most re- 
markable. 

6. Boys who had been heretofore untractable, now became 
models of obedience and docility ; those who had been remiss 
in the practice of their religion, now flew to the confessional ; 
the slothful and indolent became examples in the punctual and 
faithful discharge of their scholastic duties ; the praises of 
Mary were heard from every tongue, her statue was daily 
crowned, and her altar strewed with flowers, 

6. The fathers, seeing the good effects which the devotion 
of the month of May produced in this single college, immedi- 
ately introduced it into all their colleges in Italy, and in other 
countries of Europe ; and as they went forth from these insti- 
tutions on the mission, they established the devotion among 
the faithful, and thus it spread from church to church until it 
has at length become almost universal. 

^. Let our young readers, during this month, join in this 
beautiful devotion. Let them go forth every morning and 
crown the statue of their heavenly Queen, strew her altar with 



THE MONTH OF MABY. 177 

fresh-gathered flowers, and say to her in all the fervor of their 

hearts : 

Dearest mother ! on thy altar, 

Lay we down this simple wreath : 
Guide thy children, as we falter, 

Safely through this vale of death. 
To thy sacred heart devoted 

Thou on us bestowest peace ; 
Reconciled to Heaven we pray thee 

Till this dangerous life shall cease. 



36. The Month of Maey. 

1. "X/^OUNG May comes forth in her flowery dress, 

J- The vales rejoice in their lovehness ; 
The meek primrose and the lily fair, 
And Bethlehem's star are smihng there ; 
Then children of Mary, haste away, 
Prepare the wreath for her festal day. 

2. With fairest flowers that wreath entwine, 
Their graceful forms with care combine, 
Then let it be near some altar hung, 
And "Ave Maria" be sweetly sung ; 
And the holy priest shall lend his aid, 
To crave a boon from the spotless maid. 

3. But the wreath that with Mary bears the palm. 
Is a glowing heart with passions calm ; 
Where charity, peace, and meekness dwell, 
And the virtue pure she loved so well : 

With these adorn'd your chaplet bear, 
And ever confide in Mary's care. 
8* 



178 THE THIED READER. 




37. The Indian. 

IVTOT many generations ago, where you now sit, surrounded 
-L ' by all that exalts and embellishes civiUzed life, the rank 
thistle nodded in the wind, and the wild-fox dug his hole un- 
scared. Here lived and loved another race of beings. Beneath 
the same sun that rolls over your heads, the Indian hunter 
pursued the panting deer ; gazing on the same moon that 
smiles for you, the Indian lover wooed his dusky mate. 

2. Here the wigwam blaze beamed on the tender and help- 
less, the council-fire glared on the wise and daring. Now they 
dipped their noble limbs in your sedgy 4akes, and now they 
paddled their light canoe along your rocky shores. Here they 
warred ; the echoing whoop, the bloody grapple, the defying 
death-song, all were here ; and, when the tiger strife was over, 
here curled the smoke of peace. 

3. Here, too, they worshipped ; and from many a dark 
bosom went up a pure prayer to the Great Spirit. He had 
not written his laws for them on tables of stone, but he had 
traced them on the tables of their hearts. The poor child of 
nature knew not the God of revelation, but the God of the 
universe he acknowledged in every thing around. 

4. He beheld him in the star that sunk in beauty behind 
his lonely dwelhng ; in the sacred orb that flamed on him from 



THE INDIAN. 179 

his mid-day throne ; in the flower that snapped in the morning 
breeze ; in the lofty pine that defied a thousand whirlwinds ; 
in the timid warbler that never left its native grove ; in the 
fearless eagle, whose untired pinion was wet in clouds ; in the 
worm that crawled at his foot ; and in his own matchless 
form, glowing with a spark of that light, to whose mysterious 
Source he bent in humble, though blind adoration. 

5. And all this has passed away. Across the ocean came 
a pilgrim bark, bearing the seeds of life and death. The 
former were sown for you ; the latter sprang up in the path 
of the simple native. Two hundred years have changed the 
character of a great continent, and blotted forever from its 
face a whole pecuhar people. Art has usurped the bowers of 
nature, and the anointed children of education have been too 
powerful for the tribes of the ignorant. 

6. Here and there, a stricken few remain ; but how unlike 
their bold, untamed, untameable progenitors I The Indian, 
of falcon glance, and lion-bearing, the theme of the touching 
ballad, the hero of the pathetic tale, is gone ! and his degraded 
offspring crawl upon the soil where he walked in majesty, to 
remind us how miserable is man, when the foot of the con- 
queror is on his neck. 

*?. As a race, they have withered from the land. Their 
arrows are broken, their springs are dried up, their cabins are 
in the dust. Their council-fire has long since gone out on the 
shore, and their war-cry is fast dying to the untrodden West. 
Slowly and sadly they climb the distant mountains, and read 
their doom in the setting sun. They are shrinking befor« the 
mighty tide which is pressing them away ; they must soon 
hear the roar of the last wave, which will settle over them 
forever. 

8. Ages hence, the inquisitive white man, as he stands by 
some growing city, will ponder on the structure of their dis- 
turbed remains, and wonder to what manner of person they 
belonged. They will live only in the songs and chronicles 
of the conquering race. Let these be faithful to their rude 
virtues as men, and pay due tribute to their unhappy fate as a 
people. 



180 THE THIED KEADEB. 



38. Charity. 

1. pHARITY was a little child, 
^ Blue-eyed, beautiful and mild, 
Full of love and full of light, 

As the moon is to the night ; 
Tiny foot and snowy hand— 
Littled carved ivory wand — 
Little osier basket white — 
Little vase of something bright 
Hid in her dress quite cunningly, 
Had the sweet child, Charity I 

2. Where the aged totter'd on. 
Weak and haggard, cold and waii— 
Loifrmg in the cheering sun. 
Shivering in the rayless moon, 
Wrinkled o'er by icy time, 
Moaning for his faded prime, 
Wrapp'd in rags and wretchedness, 
Lying down in hopelessness : 

With vase and basket there would be 
The beautiful child. Charity ! 

3. Where the sick were hke to die, 
Unheeded all by human eye, 
Parching with the bleeding mouth. 
Gasping with the burning drought, 
Sleepless — ^raving — sore oppress'd, 
Starmg eye and heaving breast, 
Deserted, sad, and comfortless, 

In that lone and last distress : 

With vase and basket there would be 

The beautiful child, Charity ! 

4. Where the starving peasant cried, 
Looking at his wasting bride — 



THE EVEELASTINa CHUKCH. 181 

Looking at his younglings bright 

Fading away before his sight, 

Crying, poor man ! — bitterly. 

Crying, the helpless sight to see — 

Then a little voice he'd hear i 

Go a-singing in his ear : 

With vase and basket there would be 

The beautiful child, Charity ! 

Where the blind man stray'd aside 
From the roadway high and wide, 
And felt for his lost path again 
'Mid the jeers of heartless men, 
Just as stumbling to his knees, 
A little hand is put in his, — 
A gentle voice sings up to him. 
Soothes his heart, and nerves his limb,— 
For there with pitying care would be 
The beautiful child, Charity ! 

Ah 1 the sweet child, Charity I 
It does one's heart a good to see ! 
In her milk-white simple dress — 
In her meek, bright, loveliness — 
With her ever-giving hand — 
With her peace-enchanting wand — 
With her osier basket white — 
With her vase of something bright 
Hid in her dress quite cunningly : 
God-loved — pure child — Charity I 



39. The EvERLASTiNa Church. 

rpHEBF is not, and there never was, on this earth, an in- 
-L stitution so well deserving of examination as the Roman 
Catholic Church. The history of that Church joins together 



182 THE THIRD READER. 

the two great ages of civilization. "No other institution is 
left standing which carries the mind back to the time when 
the smoke of sacrifice rose from the Pantheon, and when 
camelopards and tigers bounded in the Flavian amphi- 
theatre. 

2. The proudest royal houses are but of yesterday, when 
compared with the line of the Supreme Pontiffs. That Ime 
we trace back, in an unbroken series, from the pope who 
crowned Napoleon in the nineteenth century, to the pope who 
crowned Pepin in the eighth; and far beyond the time of 
Pepin does this august dynasty extend. 

3. The repubUc of Yenice came next in antiquity. But 
the republic of Venice was modern when compared with the 
papacy ; and the republic of Yenice is gone, and the papacy 
remains, not in decay, not a mere antique, but full of life and 
youthful vigor. The Catholic Church is stUl sending to the 
farthest ends of the world missionaries as zealous as those 
who landed in Kent with St. Augustin, and still confronting 
hostile kings with the same spirit with which she confronted 
Attila. 

4. The number of her children is greater than in any for- 
mer age. Her acquisitions m the New Wold have more than 
compensated her for what she has lost in the Old. Her spiritual 
ascendency extends over the vast countries which he between 
the plains of Missouri and Cape Horn ; countries which, a 
century hence, may not improbably contain a population as 
large as that which now inhabits Europe. The memberi of 
her communion are certainly not fewer than two hundred mil- 
lions. Nor do we see any sign which indicates that the term 
of her long dominion is approaching. 

• 5. She saw the commencement of all the governments and 
of all the ecclesiastical estabhshments that now exist in the 
world, and feels no assm^ance that she is not destined to see 
the end of them all. She was respected before the Saxon had 
set foot in Britain, before the Frank had passed the Rhine, 
when Grecian eloquence still flourished at Antioch, when idols 
were still worshipped in the temple of Mecca ; and she may 
still exist in undiminished vigor, when some traveller from 



WELCOME TO THE EHINE. 183 

New Zealand shall, in the midst of a vast solitude, take his 
stand upon a broken arch of London Bridge, to sketch the 
ruins of St. Paul's. 



40. Welcome to the Ehine. 

The German army of liberators, on their return from France, are 
gaid to have burst into a national chant of welcome to the Rhine, on 
coming in sight of that celebrated river. 

The chorus of this song is well adapted for the purpose of simulta- 
neous reading in class. 

SINGLE VOICE. 

IT is the Rhine ! our mountain vineyards laving, 
I see the bright flood shine 1 
Sing on the march, with every banner waving — 
Sing, brothers, 'tis the Rhine ! 

CHORUS. 

The Rhine I the Rhine I our own imperial river I 

Be glory on thy track ! 
We left thy shores, to die or to deUver ; — 

We bear thee Freedom back ! 

SINGLE VOICE. 

Hail I hail I my childhood knew thy rush of water, 

Even as my mother's song ; 
That sound went past me on the field of slaughter, 

And heart and arm grew strong I 

CHORUS. 

Roll proudly on ! — brave blood is with thee sweeping, 

Pour'd out by sons of thine. 
Where sword and spirit forth in joy were leaping, 

Like thee, victorious Rhine ! 



184 



THE THIRD READER. 




SINGLE VOICE, 

Home !— home !— thy glad wave hath a tone of greeting, 

Thy path is by my home : 
Even now my children count the hours till meeting. 

Oh, ransom'd ones, I come ! 



CHORUS. 



Go, tell the seas that chain shall bind thee never, 
Sound on by hearth and shrine ! 

Sing through the hills that thou art free forever- 
Lift up thy voice, Khine ! 



THE BEE HTVE. 



185 




41. The Bee-hive. 



"IVTATURE affords but few more striking evidences of the 
■1 ' wisdom and the goodness of the Creator, than may be ob- 
served in the labors of bees. The observer is at a loss which 
to admire most, the wonderful manner in which these insects 
are adapted to their circumstances, or the unity, industry, 
loyalty, and sagacity which prevail among them. 

2. When they begin to work in their hives, they divide 
themselves into four companies ; one of which roves the fields 
in search of materials ; another employs itself in laying out 
the bottom and partitions of then: cells ; a third is employed 
in smoothing the walls ; and the fourth company brings food 
for the rest, or relieves those who return with their respective 
burdens. 

3. But they are not kept constantly at one employment ; 
they often change the tasks assigned them ; those that have 
been at work, being permitted to go abroad, and those that 
have been in the fields take their places 

4. They seem even to have signs by which they understand 
each other ; for when any of them wants food, he holds out 
his trunk towards the bee from which he expects it. The 
latter, understandmg the desire of his companion, immediately 



186 THE THIKD BEADEE. 

deposits for his use a small quantity of honey. Their diligence 
and labor are so great that in a few days they are enabled to 
make cells suflQcient for several thousand bees. In the plan 
and formation of these cells they display a wonderful sagacity. 

5. The danger of being stung by bees, may be in a great 
measure prevented by remaining quiet. A thousand bees will 
fly and buzz about a person without hurting him, if he stands' 
perfectly still and does not disturb them even if they are near 
his face. It is said that a person is in perfect safety in the 
midst of a swarm of bees, if he is careful to shut his mouth, 
and breathe gently through his nostrils. 

6. Many amusing stories are told about the effect produced 
by the sting of bees. In 1825, a mob attacke'd the house of 
a gentleman in Germany. He endeavored in vain to dissuade 
them from their designs ; at length when every thing else had 
failed, he ordered his servants to bring a large bee-hive which 
he threw into the midst of the enraged multitude. The result 
answered his expectations. The mobites, stung by the bees, 
immediately fled in all directions, and thus gave the gentleman 
time to escape from their fury. 

t. Bees have one fault common to bad boys, they are in- 
clined to fight among themselves. Quarrels and combats are 
frequent among them. Sometimes it seems that their contests 
are commenced in the hive, as the combatants may often be 
seen coming out in the greatest fury, and joining in the deadly 
strife the moment they reach the door of the hive. In some 
cases a bee peaceably settled on the outside of the hive is rude- 
ly jostled by another, and then a fierce struggle is commenced, 
each endeavoring to obtain the advantage of the position. 

8. They turn, dance about, throttle each other, and such is 
their bitter eagerness, that a person can approach near to them 
without their perceiving it. Other times, the combat takes 
place in the hive, and in those cases the contest usually con- 
tinues until one kills the other ; then the victor takes up the 
dead body of his antagonist and carries it outside the hive. 

9. Bees are remarkable for their industry, and those among 
them that will not, or cannot work, are driven from the hive 
and not permitted to return. 



THE child's wish IN JUNE. 187 



42. The Child's Wish in June. 

1. 11 /r OTHER, dear mother, the winds are at play ; 
lyjL Prithee, let me be idle to-day : 

, Look, dear mother, the flowers all He 
Languidly, under the bright blue sky. 

2. See, how slowly the streamlet glides ; 
Look, how the violet roguishly hides ; 
Even the butterfly rests on the rose, 
And scarcely sips the sweets as he goes. 

3. Poor Tray is asleep in the noonday sun, 
And the flies go about him one by one ; 
And pussy sits near with a sleepy grace, 
Without ever thinking of washing her face. 

4. There flies a bird to a neighboring tree, 
But very lazily flieth he. 

And he sits and twitters a gentle note, 
That scarcely rujffles his little throat. 

6. You bid me be busy ; but, mother, hear 

How the humdrum grasshopper soundeth near ; 
And the soft west wind is so Ught in its play, 
It scarcely moves a leaf on the spray. 

6. I wish, oh, I wish I was yonder cloud. 
That sails about with its misty shroud ; 
Books and work I no more should see, 
And I'd come and float, dear mother, o'er thee. 



188 THE THIBD BEADEK. 



43. The Maetyk's Boy. 

¥E liave a tale to tell our young readers, of Rome in the 
early days of the Christian rehgion. 

In the third century after Christ, towards the close of a mild 
September day, in one of the most imposing private buildings, 
dwelt a noble Roman matron. 

At the time that we discover her she is busily engaged over 
a piece" of work, which evidently has no personal use. Upon 
a long rich strip of gold cloth she is embroidering with still 
richer gold thread ; and occasionally she has recourse to one 
or another of several elegant caskets upon the table, from 
which she takes out a pearl, or a gem set in gold, and intro- 
duces it into the design. It looks as if the precious orna- 
ments of earlier days were being devoted to some higher 
purpose. 

2. But as time goes on, some little uneasiness may be ob- 
served to come over her calm thoughts, hitherto absorbed, to 
all appearance, in her work. She now occasionally raises her 
eyes from it towards the entrance; sometimes she listens for 
footsteps, and seems disappointed. She looks up towards the 
sun ; then perhaps turns her glance towards a clepsydra or 
water-clock, on a bracket near her ; but just as a feeling of 
more serious anxiety begins to make an impression on her 
countenance, a cheerful rap strikes the house-door, and she 
bends forward with a radiant look to meet the welcome visitor. 

3. It is a youth full of grace, and sprightliness, and candor, 
that comes forward with hght and buoyant steps across the 
atrium, towards the inner hall ; and we shall hardly find time 
to sketch him before he reaches it. He is about fourteen 
years old, but tall for that age, with elegance of form and 
manliness of bearing. His bare neck and limbs are well devel- 
oped by healthy exercise ; his features display an open and 
warm heart ; while his lofty forehead, round which his brown 
hair naturally curls, beams with a bright intelhgence. A bun- 
dle of papers and vellum rolls fastened together, and carried 



THE martye's boy. 189 

by an old servant behind him, shows us that he is just return" 
ing home from school. 

4. While we have been thus nothig him, he has received his 
mother's embrace, and has set himself low by her feet. She 
gazes upon him for some time in silence, as if to discover in 
his countenance the cause of his unusual delay, for he is an 
hour late in his return. But he meets her glance with so 
frank a look, and with such a smile of innocence, that every 
cloud of doubt is in a moment dispelled, and she addresses him 
as follows : 

6. "What has detained you to-day, my dearest boy? Iso 
accident, I trust, has happened to you on the way ? " 

" Oh, none, I assure you, sweetest mother ; on the contrary, 
all has been delightful, — so much so, that I can scarcely ven- 
ture to tell you." 

A look of soft smiling entreaty drew from the open-hearted 
boy a delicious laugh as he continued : 

6. "Well, I suppose I must. You know I am never happy, 
and cannot sleep, if I have failed to tell you all the bad and 
the good of the day about myself" (The mother smiled again, 
wondering what the bad was.) " I was reading the other day 
that the Scythians each evening cast into an urn a white or a 
black stone, according as the day had been 'happy or unhappy ; 
if I had to do so, it would serve to mark, in white or black, 
the days on which I have, or have not, an opportunity of re- 
lating to you all that I have done. But to-day, for the first 
time, I have a doubt, a fear of conscience, whether I ought to 
tell you all." 

t. Did the mother's heart flutter more than usual, as from 
a first anxiety, or was there a softer solicitude dimming her 
eye, that the youth should seize her hand and put it tenderly 
to his lips while he thus replied ? 

"Fear nothing, mother most beloved, your son has done 
nothing that may give you pain. Only say, do you wish to 
hear all that has befallen me to-day, or only the cause of my 
late return home ? " 

"Tell me all, dear Pancratius," she answered; "nothing 
that concerns you can be indifferent to me." 



190 THE THIKD READER. 

8. "Well, then," he began, "this last day of my frequent- 
ing school appears to me to have been singularly blessed, and 
yet full of strange occurrences. First, I was crowned as the 
successful competitor in a declamation, which our good mas- 
ter Cassianus set us for our work during the morning hours ; 
and this led, as you will hear, to some singular discoveries. 
The subject was, 'That the real philosopher should be ever 
ready to die for truth.' I never heard any thing so cold or 
insipid (I hope it is not wrong to say so) as the compositions 
read by my companions. It was not their fault, poor fellows I 
what truth can they possess, and what inducements can they 
have, to die for any of their vain opinions. 

9. " But to a Christian, what charming suggestions such a 
theme naturally makes I And so I felt it. My heart glowed, 
and all my thoughts seemed to burn, as I wrote my essay, full 
of the lessons you have taught me, and of the domestic exam- 
ples that are before me. The son of a martyr could not feel 
otherwise. But when my turn came to read my declamation, 
I found that my feelings had nearly fatally betrayed me. In 
the warmth of my recitation, the word ' Christian ' escaped 
my lips instead of ' philospher,' and ' faith ' instead of ' truth.' 
At the first mistake, I saw Cassianus start ; at the second, 
I saw a tear glisten in his eye, as bending lovingly towards 
me, he said, in a whisper, ' Beware, my child ; there are sharp 
ears listening.'" 

10. "What, then," interrupted the mother, "is Cassianus a 
Christian ? I chose his school for you because it was in the 
highest repute for learning and for morality ; and now, indeed, 
I thank God that I did so. But in these days of danger and 
apprehension we are obhged to live as strangers in our own 
land, scarcely knowing the faces of our brethren. Certainly, 
had Cassianus proclaimed his faith, his school would soon have 
been deserted. But go on, my dear boy. Were his appre- 
hensions well grounded ? " 

11. "I fear so : for while the great body of my schoolfel- 
lows, not noticing these slips, vehemently applauded my hearty 
declamation, I saw the dark eyes of Corvinus bent scowhngly 
upon me, as he bit his lip in manifest anger." 



THE MAKTYE's BOTt 191 

"And who is he, my child, that was so displeased, and 
wherefore ? " 

"He is the oldest and strongest, but, unfortunately, the 
dullest boy in the school. But this, you know, is not his 
fault. Only, I know not why, he seems ever to have had an 
ill-will and grudge against me, the cause of which I cannot 
understand." 

"Did he say aught to you, or do ?" 

12. "Yes, and was the cause of my delay. For when we 
went forth from school into the field by the river, he addressed 
me insultingly in the presence of our companions, and said, 
'Come, Pancratius, this, I understand, is the last time we 
meet here (he laid a particular emphasis on the word) ; but I 
have a long score to demand payment of from you. You have 
loved to show your superiority in school over me and others 
older and better than yourself : I saw your supercilious looks 
at me as you spouted your high-flown declamation to-day ; ay, 
and I caught expressions in it which you may live to rue, and 
that very soon ; for my father, you well know, is Prefect of 
the city (the mother slightly started) ; and something is pre- 
paring which may nearly concern you. Before you leave us 
I must have my revenge. If you are worthy of your name, 
and it be not an empty word,* let us fairly contend in more 
manly strife than that of the style and tables.f Wrestle with 
me, or try the cestus % against me. I burn to humble you as 
you deserve before these witnesses of your insolent triumphs.' " 

13. The anxious mother bent eagerly forward as she listened, 
and scarcely breathed. " And what." she exclaimed, "did you 
answer, my dear son ? " 

"I told him gently that he was quite mistaken ; for never 
had I consciously done any thing that could give pain to him 
or any of my schoolfellows ; nor did I ever dream of claiming 

* The pancratium was the exercise which combined all other personal 
contests ; wrestling, boxing, &c. 

t The implements of writing in schools, the tablets being covered 
with wax, on which the letters were traced by the sharp point, effaced 
by the flat top, of the style. 

X The hand- bandages worn in pugilistic combats. 



192 THE THIBD BEAI>EE. 

superiority over them. ' And as to what you propose/ I 
added, 'you know, Corvinus, that I have always refused to 
indulge in personal combats, which, beginning in a cool trial 
of skill, end in an angry strife, hatred, and wish for revenge. 

14. "'How much less could I think of entering on them 
now, when you avow that you are anxious to begin them with 
those evil feelings which are usually their bad end?' Our 
schoolmates had now formed a circle round us ; and I clearly 
saw that they were all against me, for they had hoped to enjoy 
some of the delights of their cruel games ; I therefore cheer- 
fully added, ' And now, my comrades, good-by, and may all 
happiness attend you. I part from you as I have lived with 
you, in peace.' 'Not so,' replied Corvinus, now purple in the 
face with fury ; ' but ' " — 

15. The boy's countenance became crimsoned, his voice 
quivered, his body trembled, and, half choked, he sobbed out, 
"I cannot go on ; I dare not tell the rest I" 

"I entreat you, for God's sake, and for the love you bear 
your father's memory," said the mother, placing her hand 
upon her son's head, "conceal nothing from me. 1 shall never 
again have rest if you tell me not all. What further said or 
did Corvinus ? " 

The boy recovered himself by a moment's pause and a silent 
prayer, and then proceeded : 

16. '"Not so ! ' exclaimed Corvinus, 'not so do you depart, 
cowardly worshipper of an ass's head ! You have concealed 
your abode from us, but I will find you out ; till then bear 
this token of my determined purpose to be revenged ! ' So 
saying he dealt me a furious blow upon the face, which made 
me reel and stagger, while a shout of savage delight broke 
forth from the boys around us." 

He burst into tears, which relieved him, and then went on. 



THE maetyr's boy. 193 



44. The Maetyr's Boy — concluded. 

OH, how I felt my blood boil at that moment ! how my 
heart seemed bursting within me ; and a voice appeared 
to wTiisper in my ear scornfully the name of ' coward ! ' It 
surely was an evil spirit. I felt that I was strong enough — 
my rising anger made me so — to seize my unjust assailant by 
the throat, and cast him gasping on the ground. I heard al- 
ready the shout of applause that would have hailed my victory 
and turned the tables against him. It was the hardest strug- 
gle of my Hfe ; never were flesh and blood so strong within 
me. God ! may they never be again so tremendously pow- 
erful!" 

"And wnat did you do, then, my darling boy?" gasped 
forth the trembling matron. 

2. He replied, " My good angel conquered the demon at my 
side. I thought of my blessed Lord in the house of Caiphas, 
surrounded by scoffing enemies, and struck ignominiously on 
the cheek, yet meek and forgiving. Could I wish to be other- 
wise ? I stretched forth my hand to Corvinus, and said, * May 
God forgive you, as I freely and fully do ; and may he bless 
you abundantly.' Cassianus came up at that moment, having 
seen all from a distance, and the youthful crowd quickly dis- 
persed. I entreated him, by our common faith, now acknowl- 
edged between us, not to pursue Corvinus for what he had 
done ; and I obtained his promise. And now, sweet mother," 
murmured the boy, in soft, gentle accents, into his parent's 
bosom, " do you not think I may call this a happy day ?" 

3. Silently, and almost unknowmgly, he had changed his 
position, and was kneeling before her ; and well he might ; 
for was she not to him as a guardian spirit, who had shielded 
him ever from evil ; or might he not well see in her the living 
saint whose virtues had been his model from childhood ? Lu- 
cina broke the silence, in a tone full of grave emotion. 

i. "The time has at length come my dear child," she said, 



194 THE THIKD READER. 

"which has long been the subject of my earnest prayer, which 
I have yearned for in the exuberance of maternal love. Eager- 
ly have I watched in thee the opening germ of each Christian 
virtue, and thanked God as it appeared, I have noted thy 
docility, thy gentleness, thy diligence, thy piety, and thy love 
of God and man. I have seen with joy thy Uvely faith, and 
thy indifference to worldly things, and thy tenderness to the 
poor. But I have been waiting with anxiety for the hour 
which should decisively show me, whether thou wouldst be 
content with the poor legacy of thy mother's weakly virtue, 
or art the true inheritor of thy martyred father's nobler gifts. 
That hour, thank God, has come to-day ! " 

5. "What have I done, then, that should thus have changed 
or raised thy opinion of me ? " asked Pancratius. 

" Listen to me, my son. This day, which was to be the last 
of thy school education, methinks that our merciful Lord has 
been pleased to give thee a lesson worth it all ; and to prove 
that thou hast put off the things of a child, and must be treated 
henceforth as a man : for thou canst think and speak, yea, and 
act as one." 

" How dost thou mean, dear mother ?" 

6. "What thou hast told me of thy declamation this morn- 
ing," she replied, "proves to me how full thy heart must have 
been of noble and generous thoughts ; thou art too sincere and 
honest to have written, and fervently expressed, that it was a 
glorious duty to die for the faith, if thou hadst not believed 
it, and felt it." 

"And truly I do believe and feel it," interrupted the boy. 
"What greater happiness can a Christian desu-e on earth ?" 

t. "Yes, my child, thou sayest most truly," continued Lu- 
cina. " But I should not have been satisfied with words. 
What followed afterwards has proved to me that thou canst 
bear intrepidly and patiently, not merely pain, but what I 
know it must have been harder for thy young patrician blood 
to stand, the stinging ignominy of a disgraceful blow, and the 
scornful words and glances of an unpityiug multitude. Nay 
more ; thou hast proved thyself strong enough to forgive and 
to pray for thine enemy. This day thou hast trodden the 



THE maetyr's boy. 195 

higher paths of the mountain, with the cross upon thy shoulders ; 
one step more, and thou wilt plant it on its summit. Thou 
hast proved thyself the genuine son of the martyr Quintinus, 
Dost thou wish to be like him ? " 

8. " Mother, mother 1 dearest, sweetest mother ! " broke out 
the panting youth ; " could I be his genuine son, and not wish 
to resemble him ? Though I never enjoyed the happiness of 
knowing him, has not his image been ever before my mind ? 
Has he not been the very pride of my thoughts ? 

9. "When each year the solemn commemoration has been 
made of him, as of one of the white-robed army that surrounds 
the Lamb, in whose blood he washed his garments, how have 
my heart and my flesh exulted in his glory ; and how have I 
prayed to him, in the warmth of filial piety, that he would ob- 
tain for me, not fame, not distinction, not wealth, not earthly 
joy, but what he valued more than all these : nay, that the 
only thing which he has left on earth may be applied, as I 
know he now considers it would most usefully and most nobly 
be." 

"What is that, my son?" 

10. " It is his blood," replied the youth, "which yet remains 
flowing in my veins, and in these only. I know he must wish 
that it too, like what he held in his own, may be poured out 
in love of his Redeemer, and in testimony of his faith." 

"Enough, enough, my child !" exclaimed the mother, thrill- 
ing with a holy emotion ; " take from thy neck the badge of 
childhood, I have a better token to give thee." 

He obeyed, and put away the golden bulla. 

11. "Thou hast inherited from thy father," spoke the 
mother, with still deeper solemnity of tone, " a noble name, a 
high station, ample riches, every worldly advantage. But 
there is one treasure which I have reserved for thee from his 
inheritance, till thou shouldst prove thyself worthy of it. I 
have concealed it from thee till now ; though I valued it more 
than gold and jewels. It is now time that I make it over to 
thee." 

12. With, trembling hands she drew from her neck the 
golden chain which hung round it ; and for the first time her 



196 THE THIED BEADEE. 

son saw that it supported a small bag or purse richly em- 
broidered with pearls. She opened it, and drew from it a 
sponge, dry indeed, but deeply stained. 

"This, too, is thy father's blood, Pancratius," she said, 
with faltering voice and streaming eyes. " I gathered it my- 
self from his death-wound, as, disguised, I stood by his side, 
and saw him die for Christ." 

She gazed upon it fondly, and kissed it fervently ; and her 
gushing tears fell on it, and moistened it once more. And 
thus liquefied again, its color glowed bright and warm, as if it 
had only just left the martyi-'s heart. 

13. The holy matron put it to her son's quivering lips, and 
they were empurpled with its sanctifying touch. He venerated 
the sacred relic with the deepest emotions of a Christian and 
a son ; and felt as if his father's spirit had descended into 
him, and stirred to its depths the full vessel of his heart, that 
its waters might be ready freely to flow. The whole family 
thus seemed to him once more united. 

14. Lucina replaced her treasure in its shrine, and hung it 
round the neck of her son, saying: ''When next it is moist- 
ened, may it be from a nobler stream than that which gushes 
from a weak woman's eyes !" But Heaven thought not so ; 
and the future combatant was anointed, and the future martyr 
was consecrated, by the blood of his father mingled with his 
mother's tears. 



45. Anna's Oefeeing of Samuel. 

SAMUEL, a renowned and holy prophet, was from his in- 
fancy trained up to vhtue. Anna, his mother, had for 
many years been married to Elcana, without having any chil- 
dren. Overwhelmed with the excess of sorrow, she wept and 
prayed to God for comfort to her affliction ; she joined fasting 
to her prayers, and bound herself by vow, if she should obtain 
a son, to consecrate him all the days of his hfe to the divine 
service. Samuel was the fruit of his mother's piety, and the 
recompei^e of her Mth. 



ANNA'S OFFEEING TO SAMUEL. 



197 



2. In a son like him, says St. Chrysostom, Anna became 
more happy than if she had been mother of the greatest prince 
upon earth. She received him as a present from the hand of 
God, and in comphance with her vow, hastened to give him 
back by a solemn act of rehgion. 




3. As soon as she had weaned him, she carried him to the 
tabernacle, put him into the hands of Heli, the high-priest, 
and consecrated him irrevocably, as she had promised, to the 
service of her Creator. Gratitude and piety alone guided the 
tender feelings of her love ; she parted with her child at a 



198 THE THIRD HEADER. 

time when the charms and smiles of innocence made him the 
more dear. She knew what was good for her son. and what 
was acceptable to God. 

4. Her sacrifice in some sort seems to resemble that of 
Abraham. She offered to God her darling, her only son ; she 
offered him for life, and stripped herself of all future claim 
over him. The mother's piety was repaid by the virtues of 
her son. The little Samuel ministered to the Lord under 
Heli's direction by day, and at night slept within the taber- 
nacle, near the ark of God, and there it was that God favored 
him with a special revelation, the preparatory walk of his 
future greatness. 

5. During the silence of the night, he heard a voice calling 
him by his name* unskilled as yet in the language of the 
Lord, the holy youth thought that it had been Heli's voice, 
hastily rose, and asked him what he wanted. Heli told him 
he had not called, bade him go and compose himself to sleep. 
Samuel had scarce laid himself down, when the same voice 
called him up again ; he ran to the high-priest, who ordered 
him to return and sleep. Samuel was called the third time ; 
he again rose and went to Heli, who perceived that the Lord 
had called the youth. " Go sleep," said he to him ; " and if 
thou hear the voice again, thou shalt answer, ' Speak, Lord, 
for thy servant heareth.'" 

6. Samuel retired to take his rest, and upon hearing himself 
called by name for the fourth time, answered in the words 
that Heh had commanded him. The Lord then informed 
Samuel of the heavy judgments which were soon to fall upon 
the high-priest and his family, in punishment of sins that were 
too enormous to be expiated by the sacrifices they offered. 
He declared that he could no longer bear the sinful negligence 
of a father, who, knowing the disorders, and seeing the pro- 
fane excesses of his two sons, had contented himself with a 
gentle reprimand, when a just zeal for the honor and sanctity 
of God's altar required the most exemplary severity, 

7. Heli was very pressing the next morning to know what 
the Lord had said. Samuel showed a great unwillingness to 
speak, and nothing but Heli's importunity could have prevailed 



THE BOY AND THE CHILD JESUS. 199 

upon him to impart the melancholy secret. Heli humbly sub- 
mitted to the divine decrees, and with the deepest regret for 
his past misconduct, became sensible, that to fulfil the duties 
of a father, it was not enough to be singly good, that he more- 
over ought to have endeavored to instil goodness into his 
children ; he acknowledged his neglect, and resigned himself 
to the punishment thereof. 

8. Heh, says St. Gregory, has many imitators both in the 
Church and private families. Pastors silently behold the 
disorders of their flocks, which they ought to correct ; and 
parents, . either from indolence or false fondness, suffer those 
passions to grow up in their children, which ought to have 
been checked at their first appearance. Such a neglect tends 
to the ruin of their souls, and draws down God's displeasure, 
both upon themselves and their children. 



46. The Boy and the Child Jesus. 

1. A MONG green pleasant meadows, 
-^ All in a grove so mild, 

Was set a marble image 

Of the Virgin and the Child. 

2. There oft, on summer evenings, 

A lovely boy would rove, 
To play beside the image 
That sanctified the grove. 

3. Oft sat his mother by him, 

Among the shadows dim, 
And told how the Lord Jesus 
Was once a child like him. 

4. "And now from highest heaven 

He doth look down each day, 
And sees whate'er thou doest, 
And hears what thou dost say." 



200 THE THIBD READER. 

5. Thus spake his tender mother ; 

And on an evening bright, 
When the red round sun descended 
'Mid clouds of crimson hght, — 

6. Again the boy was playing ; 

And earnestly said he, 
"Oh, beautiful Lord Jesus, 
Come down and play with me. 

t. I will find thee flowers the fairest, 
And weave for thee a crown ; 
I will get thee ripe red strawberries 
If thou wilt but come down. 

8. "Oh, holy, holy mother, 

Put him down from off thy knee ; 
For in these silent meadows 

There are none to play with me." 

9. Thus spake the boy so lovely ; 

The while his mother heard ; 
But on his prayer she ponder'd, 
And spake to him no word. 

10. That self-same night she dream'd 

A lovely dream of joy ; 
She thought she saw young Jesus, 
There playing with the boy. 

11. " And for the fruits and flowers 

Which thou hast brought to me, 
Rich blessings shall be given, 
A thousand-fold to thee. 

12. "For in the fields of heaven 

Thou shalt roam with me at will, 
And of bright fruits celestial 
Shall have, dear child, thy fill." 



THE HOLY EUCHARIST. 201 

13. Thus tenderly and kindly 

The fair child Jesus spoke ; 
And full of careful musings, 
The anxious mother woke. 

14. And thus it was accomplish'd : 

In a short month and a day, 
That lovely boy, so gentle, 
Upon his death-bed lay. 

15. And thus he spoke in dying : 

" mother dear ! I see 
The beautiful child Jesus 
A^coming down to me ; — 

16. " And in his hand he beareth 

■ Bright flowers as white as snow, 
And red and juicy strawberries ; 
Dear mother, let me go." 

lY. He died — ^but that fond mother 
Her sorrow did restrain ; 
For she knew he was with Jesus, 
And she asked him not again. 



47. The Holt Euchaeist. 

¥E invite the attention of our young readers to the most 
holy and the most sublime of the sacraments — the Holy 
Eucharist. To die for one's friend, is regarded as the highest 
act of human virtue ; but our Divine Lord has done more than 
this. 

2. Not only has he offered his life as a sacrifice, to save us 
from endless misery, from that just punishment which we have 
merited by our sins, but with a love more tender than that of 
a mother, he has left us his own sacred body and blood to be 
our food and nourishment in our journey through this world. 

9* 



202 THE THIRD READER. 

3. The Holy Eucharist is then the sacrament which contains 
the body and blood of Christ, under the form or appearance 
of bread and wine. The history of this sacred institution is 
contained in a few words. Jesus had promised his disciples 
(that he would give them his body and blood to be their food. 




When he first made this promise, many of his followers would 
not believe his word, and left him. But his Apostles believed 
what he told them, though they did not know in what manner 
he would redeem his promise. 

4. As the time approached when our blessed Lord was 
about to leave this world, he assembled together his twelve 
faithful Apostles, for the purpose of eating with them his last 
supper. After this supper was over, Jesus taking bread into 
his sacred hands, blessed it, and immediately it was changed 
into his own body, which he gave to his Apostles, saying, 
"This is my body." 

5. He then took the wine which was upon the table, and 
blessed it, and it was changed into his blood, which he also 



THE HOLY EUCHAEIST. 203 

gave to his Apostles, saying, "This is my blood of the New 
Testament, which shall be shed for many unto the remission 
of sins." And then added : '*Do this for a commemoration 
of me." 

6. Happy moment I when the Apostles received for the first 
time the body and blood of our Divine Lord. We may well 
imagine the love, the fervor, the awe which filled their hearts 
at that august moment. With what reverence did St. Peter 
approach his Lord to receive from his sacred hands the adora- 
ble elements of his body and blood. What sentiments of 
tender affection glowed in the bosom of the youthful St. John, 
as he bent before Jesus, to receive, for the first time, the 
"Holy Communion." 

7. This holy sacrament is called the Eucharist, which sig- 
nifies thanksgiving, and is applied to it in remembrance of 
the thanksgiving which our Saviour offered at the time of its 
institution, and to remind us of the grateful thanks we ought 
to render to our Divine Lord every time we receive it. It is 
sometimes called the Lord^s Supper, because it was instituted 
at the last supper which Jesus took with his Apostles. It is 
most commonly called, at the present time, the Eoly Commu- 
nion, because by it we are united so intimately with Christ, 
and forms a bond of union among Cathohcs throughout the 
world. 

8. This holy sacrament was prefigured in the old law by 
Melchisedec, who offered sacrifice, using bread and wine. But 
the most express figure was the killuig and eating of the Pas- 
chal Lamb, the blood of which was sprinkled on the doors of 
those whom the destroying angel was to spare. So Christ is 
called the Lamb of God, and his blood bemg spruikled over 
the earth, has redeemed man from sin. 

9. The matter of this sacrament consists of wheat bread, 
and wine of the grape, which Christ made use of, and without 
these the consecration would not be valid ; a small portion of 
water is mingled with the wine, in remembrance of the water 
mingled with blood, which flowed from our Divine Saviour's 
side, when pierced with a lance after he had expired on the 
cross. In the early ages of the Church, communion was given 



204 THE THIRD EEADER. 

in both of t|;iese consecrated elements ; but by degrees this 
custom was discontinued. The reception under both forms 
was not deemed necessary by our holy mother, the Church, 
because Christ being wholly present under either form, who- 
ever receives under one kind alone, receives the true body and 
blood of Christ. This was found necessary, also, to confound 
certain heretics, who maintained that the consecrated bread 
contained the body of Christ without his blood, and to refute 
others, who held that the reception of both kinds was of divine 
precept. 

10. The reception of this holy sacrament, especially for the 
first time, is the most important act of a Christian's life. 
Children who have not received it, should look forward with 
a longing desire to that happy period. Every action of their 
lives, from the dawn of reason to the day of their first com- 
munion, should be made a preparation for that sacred event. 
They should never forget the important truths that a bad 
communion renders them the associates of devils, and marks ^ 
them as candidates for hell, while a good communion elevates 
them to the companionship of angels, and seals them as the 
children of God. 



48. The House of Lobetto. 

THE house of Nazareth, in which the Blessed Virgin was 
born ; in which our Divine Lord passed his holy childhood 
and the years of his manhood until the age of thirty, became, 
after the death of the Blessed Yirgin, an object of peculiar 
veneration to the early Christians. It was converted into a 
chapel, where mass was celebrated every day, during the first 
centuries of the Church. Towards the close of the ninth cen- 
tury, when Palestine was in the hands of the Infidels, this 
house was by a miracle carried through the air into Dalmatia. 
In the same miraculous manner it was finally translated to 
Loretto, ^here it now stands under the dome of a splendid 
cathedral, which has been erected around it. 



THE HOUSE OF LORETTO. 203 

^. Hwfeetly low the laurels bending, 

Trail their bright leaves on the sod, 
For the angels are descending, 

With the holy house of God. 
O'er the Adriatic gliding, 

Bathed in light, most heavenly fair, 
Silently the air dividing. 

Angels their blest burden bear ; 
Blissful dome, most dear and holy, 

Speeding softly o'er the sea, 
Laurel branches bowing lowly, 

Bid us bend the suppliant knee. 

3. Weep, Dalmatia, for the treasure 

Borne from off thy sunny shore, 
For thy tears in untold measure, 

Shall be pour'd forevermore ; 
Far from Nazareth imparted, 

Lo ! our mother's home was given, 
Weep your loss, then, broken-hearted, 

Of this holy gift of heaven ; 
Blissful dome most dear and holy. 

Speeding softly o'er the sea, 
Laurel branches bowing lowly. 

Bid us bend the suppliant knee. 

4. Dome whose humble walls enfolded, 

In the land of GaUlee, 
She, the maid whom Heaven had moulded, 

Mother of our God to be ; 
Dome wherein her infant beauty, 

Infant purity, and truth, 
Nourish'd were for mystic duty, 

Waiting her angelic youth. 
Welcome, by the angels guided. 

Softly o'er the summer sea. 
Blest the air so late divided 

By the house of Galilee. 



206 THE THIRD READER, 

5. Blest the ground whereon it rested, 

And forever there will bloom, 
Flowers with light unearthly crested, 

Yerdure midst the desert's gloom ; 
From these walls the infant maiden, 

Saintly glory round her form, 
To the Temple, sweetly laden. 

Bore her tribute pure and warm ; 
Not of gold, nor flowers that wither, 

She her votive offering made. 
But a hoHer gift bore hither, 

And upon the altar laid. 

6. 'Twas herself, the " Star of Mormng," 

" Lily of Judea" fair. 
Sweetly God's dear shrine adorning, 

Unreserved she offer'd there ; 
Here returning from the Temple, 

With her holy spouse once more. 
This sweet flower so pure and simple, 

Lived the humble hfe of yore ; 
Bhssful dome most dear and holy. 

Speeding softly o'er the sea. 
Laurel branches bowing lowly. 

Bid us bend the suppliant knee. 

1. Gentlest mother, humbly kneeling. 

Sorrowful within thy walls,* 
Sound of heavenly pinions stealing. 

Softly, as we hsten, falls ; 
While we see thy beauty holy. 

Beaming with a light divine, 
And majestic Gabriel slowly 

Enters where thy glories shine ; 

* At St. Mary's Academy, near South Bend, a chapel for the "Chil- 
dren of Mary' ' has been erected on the exact model of the house of 
Loretto, both externally and internally. The designs brought from 
Italy have been strictly followed. Our Holy Father, Pius IX., has 
liberally endowed this chapel in the West with all the indulgences 
attached to the world-renowned pilgrimage of Loretto. 



EXTREME UNCTION. 207 

Hear that voice like purling waters, 

Falling sweetly on the ear, 
"Mary, blest of Israel's daughters, 

God the Lord is with thee here." 

''Full of grace" 'tis he who led thee, 

Sinless, pure, his chosen one ! 
And his power shall overspread thee, 

And his will in thee be done ; 
From thy tender heart's pure fountain, 

God shall be incarnate made, 
And the tide from sin's dark mountain, 

At thy holy feet be stay'd. 
"Handmaid of the Lord behold me," 

Joyful word falls on the ear, 
Sinful earth let hght enfold thee, 

Lo I the Word Incarnate here I 

Fairest dome, the angel's treasure, 

Earth can hold no shrine so blest, 
And our hearts in untold measure. 

Pour their tribute here to rest ; 
By our loving Mother guarded, 

Here we hope her aid to gam, 
And our love at last rewarded, ^ 

Heaven shall echo our refrain ; 
Bhssful dome, most dear and holy, 

Speeding softly o'er the sea, 
Laurel branches bending lowly, 

Bid us bend the supphant knee. 



49. Extreme Unction. 

THE sacrament of Extreme Unction is administered to sick 
persons when in danger of death, and on that account it 
is called Extreme. It is uncertain when this sacrament was 



208 THE THIRD READER. 

instituted, but the Council of Trent has declared that it was 
instituted like the other sacraments, by our divine Lord him- 
self. 

2. That it was recognized as a sacrament by the Apostles 
is evident from the Epistle of St. James, where he says in the 
5th chapter of his epistle : "Is any man sick among you, let 
him bring in the priests of the Church, and let them pray over 
him, anointing him with oil, in the name of the Lord : and 
the prayer of faith shall save the sick man, and the Lord shall 
raise him up ; and if he be in sins, they shall be forgiven him." 
St. Mark also relates that the Apostles anointed with oil many 
that were sick. 

3. The matter of this sacrament is oU blessed by a bishop. 
The words used on the occasion of confering the sacrament are 
the following : 

"By this holy unction, and his own most tender mercy, 
may the Lord pardon thee whatsoever sins thou hast com- 
mitted by the sight, by the hearing," and so of the other 
senses. 

4. No one, except a bishop or priest, can administer this 
sacrament. It may be received several times, but not more 
than once in the same sickness. Persons ought to prepare 
for it by a good confession ; and where this is impossible, by 
reason of the loss of speech, by a sincere act of contrition, 
and detestation of their sins. 

5. The parts generally anointed are the eyes, ears, nose, 
lips, hands, and feet. The effects of Extreme Unction are, 
first, to remit all venial sins, and mortal sins forgotten ; 
second, to heal the soul of her infirmity and weakness, and a 
certain propensity to sin which often remains in the soul after 
the guilt has been remitted ; third, it gives strength and grace 
to the soul to bear with patience the pains and infirmities 
of the body ; and lastly, it sometimes restores the corporal 
health, as has been attested on many occasions. 



WHAT IS THAT, MOTHEIi?" 209 




60. "What is that, Mother?" 

1. TI7 HAT is that, mother ? " " The lark, my child I 

' ' The moon has but just look'd out and smiled, 
. When he starts from his humble, grassy nest, 
And is up and away with the dew on his breast. 
And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure, bright sphere, 
To warble it out in his Maker's ear. 
Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays 
Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise.'^ 

2. "What is that, mother ?" "The dove, my son ! 
And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan, 
Is flowing out from her gentle breast, 
Constant and pure by that lonely nest. 

As the wave is pour'd from some crystal urn, 
For her distant dear one's quick return. 
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove, 
In friendship as faithful, as constant in love.'' 

3. "What is that, mother?" "The eagle, boy I 
Proudly careering his course of joy ; 



210 THE THIEB BEADEE. 

Firm, on his own mountain vigor relying, 
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying, 
His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun. 
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on. 
Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine. 
Onward and upward, and true to the line." 

4. "What is that, mother?" ''The swan, my love I 
He is floating down from his native grove ; 
No loved one now, no nestling nigh, 
He is floating down by himself to die ; 
Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings, 
Yet his sweetest song is the last he sings. 

Live so, my love, that when death shall come, 
Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home." 




51. Charity. 

TURN not away your face from the poor, and harden not 
your hearts against them." This, my child, is the beau- 
tiful admonition of the wise man, inspired by God himself. 
Of all the virtues which religion commends to the practice of 
her children, charity is the most pleasing to God, the most 



ANECDOTES OP HOESES. 211 

beneficial to our fellow-creatures. When the world is so Ml 
of poverty and wretchedness, what would become of the poor, 
if the rich did not give them of their abundance, and relieve 
their wants and sufferings by the exercise of charity. 

2. Children, especially, ought to practise charity as far as 
their means will allow. If that beautiful virtue be not culti- 
vated in early youth, when the mind is fresh and the heart 
unspoiled by the world's rough ways, it will never bear fruit 
in the heart in after life. 

3. When little boys and girls have pocket-money given them, 
what better can they do with, at least, a portion of it, than 
bestow it on some person who is in need? If part of the 
money spent in every family among the rich, on cakes and 
candies, were only given each week to some deserving object, 
like the decent poor woman in the picture, it would provide 
herself and her hungry httle ones with, at least, some loaves 
of bread. Let children think of that when they spend their 
tiny silver pieces on worthless toys and trashy sugar-sticks 
that are of no earthly good to them, but are, on the contrary, 
really injurious to their health. 

4. Would not the blessing which that poor woman seems 
giving so fervently to those good little girls, who have given 
her child bread, be worth a thousand times more to them, 
than any thing they could buy for themselves to eat or to 
play with ? 



52. Anecdotes of Horses. 

THE method of taking the wild horse in the forests of 
South America, by throwing a cord (called a lasso) over 
him, is effected by men who are mounted on tamed horses, that 
have been trained to the business. Once made a prisoner, 
and kept for a couple of days without food or drink, he soon 
becomes tame and is broken-in ; but if not closely watched, he 
will escape to his friends of the forest, and yet he will after- 
wards allow himself readily to be taken. Several instances 
have then known of persons who have met with their tamed 



212 THE THIRD READER. 

runaways in the herd, which after a long absence have come 
up to them, again to receive their caresses — and have again 
become their wilhng slaves. By some travellers it is asserted, 
that the wild herds endeavor by stratagem to seduce tame 
horses to join their community. 

2. We, some years since, saw the favorite charger of Bona- 
parte : he was a handsome white barb, scarred with many 
wounds, which the groom stated him to have received in 
various battles ; and he also said that, since he had lost his 
master, he would not allow any stranger to mount him ; per- 
mitting only the groom himself the honor of doing so. He 




always spoke to the animal in French, and his commands 
were readily obeyed. 

3. He would bid him to retire, to lie down, to rise, and show 
how he fought in the service of Bonaparte ; and how he shared 
his provisions when they were scarce. After obeying the pre- 
vious commands of his groom, he would, in obedience to the 
last, show how he shared his food, by going to a pail of 
water, in which there was a cleanly-scraped carrot, and taking 
the end of it in his mouth, he would bring it to the groom, 
in whose mouth he placed the other end, and then bit it in 
two, eating his own portion only. 

4, Equine attachment sometimes exhibits itself in a light 



ANECDOTES OF HORSES. 213 

as exalted and creditable as that of the human mind. During 
the Peninsular war, the trumpeter of a French cavalry corps 
had a fine charger assigned to him, of which he became pas- 
sionately fond, and which, by gentleness of disposition and 
uniform docility, equally evinced its affection. 

5. The sound of the trumpeter's voice, the sight of his 
uniform, or the twang of his trumpet, was sufficient to throw 
this animal into a state of excitement ; and he appeared to be 
pleased and happy only when under the saddle of his rider. 
Indeed he was unruly and useless to everybody else ; for once, 
on being removed to another part of the forces, and consigned 
to a young officer, he resolutely refused to perform his evolu- 
tions, bolted straight to the trumpeter's station, and there 
took his stand, jostling alongside his former master. 

6. This animal, on being restored to the trumpeter, carried 
him, during several of the Peninsular campaigns, through many 
difficulties and hair-breadth escapes. At last the corps to 
which he belonged was worsted, and in the confusion of retreat 
the trumpeter was mortally wounded. Dropping from his horse, 
his body was found, many days after the engagement, stretched 
on the sward, with the faithful charger standing beside it, 

7. During the long interval, it seems that he had never quit- 
ted the trumpeter's side, but had stood sentinel over his corpse, 
scaring away the birds of prey, and remaining totally heedless 
of his own privations. When found, he was in a sadly-reduced 
condition, partly from loss of blood through wounds, but chiefly 
from want of food, of which, in the excess of his grief, he could 
not be prevailed on to partake. 

8. Though Providence seems to have implanted in the horse 
a benovolent disposition, with at the same time a certain awe 
of the human race, yet there are instances on record of his 
recollecting injuries, and fearfully revenging them. A person 
near Boston (Mass.), was in the habit, whenever he wished to 
catch his horse in the field, of taking a quantity of corn hi a 
measure, by way of bait. 

9. On calling to him, the horse would come up and eat the 
corn, while the bridle was put over his head. But the owner 
having deceived the animal several times, by calling him when 



214: THE THIRD READER. 

he liad no corn in the measure, the horse at length began to 
suspect the design ; and coming up one day as usual, on being 
called, looked into the measure, and seeing it empty, turned 
round, reared on his hind legs, and killed his master on the spot. 

10. The docility of the horse is one of the most remarkable 
of his natural gifts. Furnished with acute senses, and excel- 
lent memory, high intelligence, and gentle disposition, he soon 
learns to know and obey his master's will, and to perform 
certain actions with surprising accuracy and precision. The 
range of his performances, however, is limited by his physical 
structure : he has not a hand to grasp, a proboscis to lift the 
minutest object, nor the advantages of a light and agile frame ; 
if he had, the monkey, the dog, and the elephant, would in this 
respect be left far behind him. 

11. It has been before remarked, that the horse is inferior 
to none of the brute creation in sagacity and general intelli- 
gence. In a state of nature, he is cautious and watchful ; and 
the manner in which the wild herds conduct their marches, 
station their scouts and leaders, shows how fully they compre- 
hend the necessity of obedience and order. All their move- 
ments, indeed, seem to be the result of reason, aided by a 
power of expressing their ideas very far superior to that of 
'most other animals. 

12. The neighings by which they express terror, alarm, or 
recognition, the discovery of water and pasture, &c., are all 
essentially different, and yet are instantly comprehended by 
every member of the herd ; nay, the various movements of the 
body, the pawing of the ground, the motions of the ears, and 
the expressions of the countenance, seem to be fully understood 
by each other. 

13. In passing swampy ground, they test it with the fore- 
foot, before trusting to it the full weight of their bodies ; they 
will strike asunder the melon-cactus to obtain its succulent 
juice, with an address perfectly wonderful ; and will scoop out 
a hollow in the moist sand, in the expectation of its filling 
with water. All this they do in their wild state ; and domes- 
tication, it seems, instead of lessening, tends rather to strengthen 
and develop their intelligence. 



THE BATTLE OP BLENHEIM. 215 

■.ms try the speed of their horses, by hunting 
/ird endesvors to reach the mountains, run- 
. -;. >r' -Mids T-'tb -^reat rapidity, assisted in its efforts 
by flapping its wings. A horse, however, possessing the high- 
est quaUty of speed, is enabled to come up with it ; when the 
poor creature hides its head in a bush, or wherever it can, 
and is quietly taken. By this criterion the hunter rates his 
horse ; and as the animal evinces his speed and perseverance 
in the chase, his master estimates his value. The Arabs 
accustom their horses to fatigue, and give them milk which 
enables them to bear it. 



53. The Battle of Blenheim. 

1. TT was a summer evening, 

J- Old Kasper's work was done : 
And he before his cottage-door 

Was sitting in the sun, 
And by him sported on the green 
His little grandchild Wilhelmine. 

2. She saw her brother Peterkin 

Roll something large and round, 
Which he beside the rivulet, 

In playing there, had found , 
He came to ask what he had found, 
That was so large, and smooth, and round. 

3. Old Kasper took it from the boy, 

Who stood expectant by ; 
And then the old man shook his head, 

And with a natural sigh, 
'"Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, 
"Who fell in the great victory. 

4. "I find them in the garden, for 

There's many here about, 



216 THE THIRD EEADEB. 

And often when I go to plough, 

The ploughshare turns them out ; 
For many thousand men," said he, 
''Were slain in the great victory." 

6. "Now tell us what 'twas all about," 

Young Peterkin he cries. 
And little Wilhelmine looks up 

With wonder-waiting eyes ; 
"Now tell us all about the war, 
And what they kill'd each other for." 

6. "It was the English," Kasper cried, 
"That put the French to rout ; 
But what they kill'd each other for, 

I could not well make out. 
But everybody said," quoth he, 
"That 'twas a famous victory. 

*J. "My father lived at Blenheim then. 
Yon little stream hard by, 
They burnt his dwelling to the ground, 

And he was forced to fly ; 
So with his wife and child he fled, 
Nor had he where to rest his head. 

8. "With fire and sword the country round 
Was wasted far and wide. 

And many a childing mother then. 
And new-born infant, died ; — 

But things like that, you know, must be 

At every famous victory. 

^. "They say it was a shocking sight, 

After the field was won. 
For many thousand bodies here 

Lay rotting in the sun ; — 
But things hke that, you know, must be 
After a famous victt)ry. 



THE ANNUNCIATION. 217 

10. " Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won, 

And our good Prince Eugene." 
*' Why, 'twas a very wicked thing I" 

Said little Wilhelmine. 
^'Nay — nay — my little girl," quoth he, 
"It was a famous victory. 

11. " And everybody praised the Duke 

Who such a fight did win." 
"But what good came of it at last ?" 

Quoth little Peterkin. 
"Why that I cannot tell," said he, 
" But 'twas a famous victory." 



54. The Annunciation. 

¥HEN the plenitude of time was come that God had fixed 
from eternity to shower down his blessings upon man- 
kind, by giving them a Redeemer, the angel Gabriel was first 
deputed to Zachary, a holy priest, whose wife was Elizabeth, 
one of the daughters of Aaron. The heavenly messenger 
came to tell him that he should have a son, whose name 
should be John, and whose birth should be a subject of joy 
to many in Israel 

2. Six months after, Almighty God deputed the same angel 
to a virgin whose name was Mary, residing in Nazareth, a 
city of Galilee. Mary had been espoused to a holy man 
called Joseph, a descendant of the house of David. The 
divine Providence had in a special manner presided over 
those nuptials, which provided the Virgin with a guardian 
and protector of her purity. Eor with the same sentiments 
of virtue, and in the same dispositions of mind, says St. Aus- 
tin, both Mary and Joseph entered into a mutual engagement 
of joining the marriage state with a state of virginity, of which 
the world had not seen an example. 

3. Almighty God honored this alliance with an issue which 
was to set open the gates of heaven, which for ages had been 

10, 



218 



THE THIED READER. 



shut against us by the crime of our first parents. Mary was 
the woman destined by Almighty God to crush the serpent's 
head, as it is written in the book of Genesis (chap, iii,), and 
it was to obtain her const ^ that God then sent his angel to 
Nazareth. The angel fouua her alone, as St. Ambrose ob- 
serves, and respectfully said unto her — "Hail ! full of grace^ 
the Lord is with thee ; blessed art thou among women 1 '' 



I I Vi y&j^ f K» 

^ I \ J^SV 111'' ""''I ^^ * 





4. The humble virgin was disturbed at the angel's saluta- 
tion, and trembled with fear, lest, as Eve had been deceived 
by the serpent, she also might be misled by a similar delusion. 
She considered the sense and import of his words, and thereby 
gives us an admirable example of discretion, which teaches us 
not to be too hasty in consenting to a proposal before we 
understand the nature of its obligation. 

5. The angel saw the trouble of her mind, and f o appease 
it, said — "Fear not, Mary; for you have found favor with 
the Lord." He then opened the subject of his commission, 
and told her that she should conceive and bring forth a son, 
and call his name Jesus ; that he should be great, even the 
Son of the Most High ; that he should sit upon the throne 



THE ANNUNCIATION. 219 

of David ; that he should reign in the house of Jacob, and 
that of his kingdom there should be no end. 

6. The Virgin hstened to the angel with great attention ; 
she heard the wonderful things hj p^ omised, but desired to 
know how it could possibly be , ..,.e, because she was a virgin. 
It was not an idle curiosity, but a mark of her submission to 
the divine will ; nor was it a want of faith, but an intimation 
of the chaste purpose of her mind, which induced her to ask 
the angel that question. 

t. The angel, in reply, assured her that no concurrence of 
man was requisite for what the sole power of the Most High, 
with her consent, would operate within her ; that by the in- 
effable virtue of the Holy Ghost she should conceive, bear a 
son, and still remain a pure virgin. It is what the prophet 
Isaiah (chap, vii.) had expressly foretold. But to convince 
the Yirgin that nothing was impossible to God, the angel, 
moreover, told her what had happened to her cousin Eliza- 
beth in an advanced age, who, notwithstanding the many 
years she had been reputed barren, had miraculously con- 
ceived, and was six months gone with child. 

8. The Yirgin having thus received the information she 
desired, and being told the manner in which the mystery was 
to be wrought within her, gave her consent. In terms the 
most humble and submissive, terms that expressed the holy 
disposition of her heart, she said — "Behold the handmaid of 
the Lord : let it be done to me according to thy word." 

9. The angel having thus happily completed his commis- 
sion returned to heaven, and the wonderful mystery of the 
Incarnation took place that instant. For Mary had no 
sooner given her consent, than the Son of God, the second 
Person of the most adorable Trinity, by an invisible and mys- 
terious operation of the Holy Ghost, took flesh and became 
man in her womb, without the least detriment to her virginal 
integrity. That was the happy moment in which the work of 
man's redemption was begun ; that was the moment when an 
incarnate God unlocked the source of those plentiful graces 
which were to flow for the salvation of mankind, to wash our 
souls from sin, and to sanctify them for eternal life. 



220 THE THIED HEADER. 



65. St. Feucitas and her Sons. 

THERE lived at Rome, in the reign of Marcus Aurelius, a 
noble lady called Felicitas. She was a widow, and had 
seven sons. On her husband's death, she took a vow of chas- 
tity, and gave herself up to a life of prayer, fasting, and good 
works. One of her principal occupations was the education 
of her seven sons, whom she loved very dearly. Felicitas' 
love for her sons was not merely such as all women feel for 
their children. 

2. She remembered that they were not her children only, 
but that they were the children of God, who had lent them to 
her, and who would one day ask her account of them. She 
did not wish to see them great in this world, but wished to 
lay up in store for them the inestimable riches of eternal glory 
in the next. 

3. She therefore trained them from their infancy in all holy 
and pious practices suited to their age, and she offered them 
up to Jesus to live and die in his service, in whatever way it 
might be his will to make use of them. Our Lord accepted 
the offering, and gave her and them the high honor of suffer- 
ing martyrdom for his sake. 

4. Felicitas was so good and holy that the women of her 
own rank thought very highly of whatever she said or did, 
and many of them who were pagans were converted by her 
example and influence. This displeased the heathen priests, 
and they complained to the emperor, and persuaded him that 
the gods were very angry, and would not be pacified till Feli- 
citas and her children would offer sacrifice to them. 

5. She and her sons were accordingly made prisoners, and 
taken before Pubhus, the prefect of the city. Publius was 
unwilling to use violence with a lady of such high rank and 
character as Felicitas ; so he first took her aside, and tried 
gently to persuade her to sacrifice to the gods. But Felicitas 
answered — " Do not hope, Publius ! to win me with fair 
words, or to terrify me with threats ; for I have within me 
the spirit Of God, who will not let me be overcome by Satan j 



ST. PELICITAS AND HER SONS. 221 

and therefore I am sure I shall be too hard for you, who are 
the servant of Satan." 

6. Publius seeing that she had no fear for herself, thought 
he would move her by speaking to her of her children, and he 
therefore said to her — "Unhappy woman ! is it possible that 
you are so tired of life that you will not even let your chil- 
dren Uve, but will force me to destroy them by bitter and 
cruel torments ? " 

t. "My children," replied Felicitas, "would die an ever- 
lasting death if they were to sacrifice to your gods. But 
now, since they acknowledge and worship Jesus Christ, they 
will live with him forever." After making this first attempt, 
Publius dismissed her, thinking it would be better to let her 
consider coolly and quietly what he had said, and what tor- 
tures she was bringing on herself and her children, hoping that 
when she did so, she would come to a better mind. 

8. The next day, as he was sitting in the temple of Mars, 
he sent for Felicitas and her sons. When they came before 
him, he turned to her, and appealing to her feelings as a 
mother, he said — "O Felicitas I take pity on your children, 
who are now in the prime of youth, and who are of such noble 
birth, and are so good and clever that they may look to the 
highest honors of the state." 

9. But Felicitas answered — "Your pity is cruel, and your 
advice is impious and deceitful." Then, turning to her chil- 
dren, she said — "My sons, look up to heaven, where Christ 
expects you with all his saints I Fight manfully for the good 
of your souls, and show yourselves faithful and constant in 
the love of the true God, Christ Jesus." These words exas- 
perated Publius, who looked upon it as an intolerable affront 
that this woman should defy him to his very face, and so he 
commanded that she should be cruelly beaten about the face 
and head. 

10. Then he turned to her sons, and beginning with Janua- 
rius, the- eldest, he tried to induce him, by promises and threats, 
to adore the gods. But the boy was not unworthy of his 
brave and saintly mother, and he answered — " You wish to 
persuade me to do a foolish thing, contrary to all reason ; but 



222 THE THIED EEADER. 

I trust in my Lord Jesus Christ that he will preserve me from 
so great an impiety." On hearing these words, Publius or- 
dered that he should h'e stripped and very severely scourged ; 
after which he was thrown into prison. 

11. All the other brothers were brought up in turn, and 
every art was used to conquer them, and induce them to obey 
the emperor. But it was all to no purpose ; for they were 
supported and guided by the Holy Spirit, and they all made 
Publius the same answer, though in different words, as Janu- 
arius had done. They were therefore scourged so severely 
that their whole bodies were a mass of wounds, and in this 
state they were thrown into prison, till the emperor's further 
pleasure should be known. 

12. During all the time that her sons were being thus tor- 
tured, Felicitas was forced to stand by and witness their suf- 
ferings. This holy mother remained firm and unmoved, while 
she looked on the torments of her children. She did not shed 
a tear as the noise of the blows resounded in her ears ; she 
did not shrink at the sight of their streaming blood, their 
quivering flesh, and their involuntary writhings of agony. 

13 The only words she spoke were to exhort them to stand 
firm, and to inflame them with love for Jesus. It seems 
strange how a mother could act in this way. It was not be- 
cause she did not love her children, or because she had not 
the natural feelings of a mother ; for, on the contrary, every 
torture they endured pierced her to her very heart, and gave 
her even more pain than it did them. But it was because the 
supernatural character of her love for them gave her strength 
to conquer the weakness of a mother's natural feelings. 

14. Looking on them with the eyes of faith, she saw in 
their temporal death only their gain of eternal life ; in their 
present wounds, the jewels of their future crown ; and in the 
severity of their torments, the greater blessedness prepared 
for them in glory. She would have feared to leave them 
behind her on earth, lest any one of them should fall short 
of heaven, and therefore she rejoiced as much in the death of 
her sons as other mothers weep when theirs are taken from 
theni. 



ST. FELICITAS AND HER SONS. 223 

15. Marcus Aurelius was so hardened that he could not 
feel the least compassion for Fehcitas, and he ordered that all 
her sons should be put to death in various ways before her 
eyes. The three eldest underwent a very horrible and linger- 
ing death, being slowly beaten till they expired. Januarius 
was first torn with whips, and then with thick cords, loaded 
with lead, till he died ; and Felix and Philip were bruised and 
broken with cudgels till, every bone being fractured, and their 
bodies being reduced to a shapeless mass, they at last expu'ed. 

16. A milder fate awaited the others; for Silvanus was 
thrown from a rock, while Alexander, Yitalis, and Martiahs 
were beheaded. To have put their bereaved mother to death 
would ha,ve been a deed of mercy ; but the persecutors of the 
Christians did not know what mercy was. 

It. The emperor ordered her to be thrown into a dark and 
cold dungeon, where she was kept four months, in hopes that 
her patience being worn out, and her spirit broken by her sor- 
row, she would at last be willing to do any thing to escape 
from sohtude and torture. But there was now less chance 
than ever of St. Felicitas giving up her religion, for the loss 
of her children had only strengthened her to bear whatever 
might be inflicted on her. 

18. She had now no temptation to save her life by denying 
Jesus ; for this world was become a blank to her, and nothing 
in it could give her the least happiness. She would have wept 
had not her sons died for Christ ; but now that she had as 
many bright and glorious saints in heaven as she had once 
had children on earth, her only hope and longing was to be 
with them in the presence of Him to whom she had offered 
them, and for the love of whom they had laid down their lives. 

19. At last, when it was plain that she would never give 
her consent to adore the heathen gods, the emperor ordered 
her to be beheaded. Thus did this blessed saint suffer eight 
martrydoms — being martwed in each of her children, and 
ceasing to suffer only when she ceased to breathe. A father 
of the Church, in speaking of her, says — " She is not a true 
mother who knows not how to love her children as St. Fehci' 
tas loved hers." 



224 THE THIRD READER. 



56. Immortality. 

I LINGERED several weeks around the grave of my mother, 
and in the neighborhood where she had Hved. It was the 
place where I had passed my own childhood and youth. It 
was the scene of those early associations which become the 
dearer to us as we leave them the farther behind. I stood 
where I had sported in the freedom of early childhood ; but I 
stood alone, for no one was there with whom I could speak of 
its frolics. One feels singularly desolate when he sees only 
strange faces, and hears only strange voices in what was the 
home of his early life. 

2. I returned to the village where I resided when I first 
introduced myself to my readers. But what was that spot to 
me now ? Nature had done much for it, but nature herself is 
very much what we make her. There must be beauty in our 
souls, or we shall see no loveliness in her face ; and beauty 
had died out of my soul. She who might have recalled it to 
life, and thrown its hu^s over all the world, was — but of that 
I will not speak. 

3. It was now that I really needed the hope of immortality. 
The world was to me one vast desert, and life was without 
end or aim. The hope of immortality ! We want it when 
earth has lost its gloss of novelty; when our hopes have 
been blasted, our affections withered, and the shortness of life 
and the vanity of all human pursuits, have come home to 
us, and made us exclaim, "Yanity of vanities, all is vanity:" 
we want then the hope of immortality to give to life an end, 
an aim. 

4. We all of us at times feel this want. The infidel feels 
it in early life. He learns all too soon, what to him is a 
withering fact, that man does not complete his destiny on 
earth. Man never completes any thing here. What then 
shall he do if there be no hereafter ? With what courage can 
I betake myself to my task ? I may begin ; but the grave 
lies between me and the completion. Death will come to in- 
terrupt my work, and compel me to leave it unfinished. 



THE WIDOW OP NAIN. 225 

6. This is more terrible to me than the thought of ceasing 
to be. I could almost (at least I think I could) consent to 
be no more, after I had finished my work, achieved my des- 
tiny ; but to die before my work is completed, while that 
destiny is but begun, — ^this is the death which comes to me 
indeed as a ''King of Terrors." 

6. The hope of another life to be the completion of this, 
steps in to save us from this death, to give us the courage and 
the hope to begin. The rough sketch shall hereafter become 
the finished picture ; the artist shall give it the last touch at 
his easel ; the science we had just begun, shall be completed, 
and the incipient destiny shall be achieved. Fear not then to 
begin ; thou hast eternity before thee in which to end. 



57. The Widow of Nain. 

9 rp WAS now high noon. 

J- The dull, low murmur of a funeral 
Went through the city — the sad sound of feet 
Unmix'd with voices — and the sentinel 
Shook off his slumber, and gazed earnestly 
Up the wide streets along whose paved way 
The silent throng crept slowly. They came on, 
Bearing a body heavily on its bier, 
And by the crowd that in the burning sun, 
Walk'd with forgetful sadness, 'twas of one 
Mourn'd with uncommon sorrow. The broad gat( 
Swung on its hinges, and the Roman bent 
His spear-point downwards as the bearers pass'd, 
Bending beneath their burden. There was one — 
Only one mourner. Close behind the bier, 
Crumpling the pall up in her withered hands, 
Follow'd an aged woman. Her short steps 
Falter'd with weakness, and a broken moan 
Fell from her hps, thicken'd convulsively^ 
10« 



226 



THE THIED HEADER. 



As her heart bled afresh. The pitying crowd 
FoUow'd apart, but no one spoke to her. 
She had no kinsmen. She had lived alone — 




A widow with one son. He was her all — 
The only tie she had in the wide world — 
And he was dead. They could not comfort her. 
jk * * * * 

Forth from the city-gate the pitying crowd ' 
Follow'd the stricken mourner. They came near 
The place of burial, and, with straining hands, 



MONUMENT TO A MOTHER'S GRAVE. 227 

Closer upon her breast she clasp'd the pall, 

And with a gasping sob, quick as a child's. 

And an inquiring wildness flashing through 

The thin gray lashes of her fever'd eyes, 

She came where Jesus stood beside the way. 

He look'd upon her, and his heart was moved. 

"Weep not !" he said ; and as they stay'd the bier. 

And at his bidding laid it at his feet. 

He gently drew the pall from out her grasp. 

And laid it back in silence from the dead. 

With troubled wonder the mute throng drew near, 

And gazed on his calm looks, A minute's space 

He stood and pray'd. Then, taking the cold hand, 

He said " Arise ! " And instantly the breast 

Heaved in its cerements, and a sudden flush ^ 

Ran through the lines of the divided lips, 

And with a murmur of his mother's name. 

He trembled and sat upright in his shroud. 

Ind, while the mourner hung upon his neck, 

Jesus went calmly on his way to Nain, 



58. MONUMTNT TO A MoTHER's GrAVE. 

I FOLLOWED into a burying-ground in the suburbs of 
Philadelphia, a small train of persons, not more than a 
dozen, who had come to bury one of their acquaintance. The 
clergyman in attendance, was leading a little boy by the hand, 
who seemed to be the only relative of the deceased. 

2. I gathered with them around the grave ; and when the 
plain coffin was lowered down, the child burst forth in uncon- 
trollable grief. The little boy had no one left to whom he 
could look for afi'ection, or who could address him in tones of 
parental kindness ; the last of his kinsfolk was in the grave, 
and he was alone. 

3. When the clamorous grief of the child had a little sub- 
sided, the clergyman addressed us with the customary exhor- 



228 THE THIBD HEADER. 

tation to accept the warning and be prepared, and turning 
to the child, he added, "She is not to remain in the grave 
forever ; as sure as the grass, which is now chilled with the 
frost of the season, shall spring to greenness and life in a few 
months, so true shall your mother rise from that grave to 
another life : a life of happiness, I hope." 

4. The attendants then shovelled in the earth upon the coffin, 
and some one took little William, the child, by the hand, and 
led him forth from the lonely tenement of his mother. 

6. Late in the ensuing spring, I was in the neighborhood of 
the same burying-ground, and seeing the gate open, I walked 
among the graves for some time, reading the names of the 
dead ; when, recollecting that I was near the grave of the 
poor widow, buried the previous autumn, I turned to see what 
had been done to preserve the memory of one so utterly des- 
titute of earthly friends. 

6. To my surprise, I found the most desirable of mementoes 
for a mother's sepulchre : little William was sitting near the 
head of the now sunken grave, looking intently at some green 
shoots that had come forth with the warmth of spring from 
the soil that had covered his mother's coffin. 

1. William started at my approach, and would have left 
the place. It was long before I could induce him to tarry ; 
and indeed, I could not win his confidence until I told him 
that I was present when they buried his mother, and had 
marked his tears at the time. 

8. "Then you heard the priest say my mother would come 
out of this grave I " said William. 

"I did." 

"It is true : is it not ?" asked he, in a tone of confidence. 
"I most firmly believe it," said I. 

"Believe it 1" said the child, "believe it I I thought yon 
knew it. I know it." 

"How do you know it, my dear ?" 

9. "The priest said, that as true as the grass grew up, and 
the flowers bloomed in spring, so true would mother rise. I 
came a few days afterward and planted flower-seeds on the 
grave. The grass came green in the burying-ground long ago ; 



MONUMENT TO A MOTHER'S GRAVE. 229 

and I watched every day for the flowers, and to-day they came 
up too. See them breaking through the gromid I By-and-by 
mother will come again." 

10. A smile of exulting hope played upon the features of 
the boy, and I felt pained at disturbing the faith and confi- 
dence with which he was animated. ''But, my little child," 
said I, "it is not here that your mother will rise." 

"Yes, here," said he with emphasis: "here they placed 
her, and here I have come ever since the first blade of grass 
was seen this year." 

11. I looked around, and saw the tiny foot of the child had 
trod out the herbage at the grave-side : so constant had been 
his attendance. What a faithful watch-keeper ! what mother 
would desire a richer monument than the form of her son 
bending in tearful but hoping trust over her grave ? 

12. "But, William," said I, "it is in another world that 
she will rise ; " and I attempted to explain to him the nature 
of that promise which he had mistaken. The child was con- 
fused, and he appeared neither pleased nor satisfied. 

" If mother is not coming back to me, if she is not to come 
up here, what shall I do ? I cannot stay without her." 

"You shall go to her," said I, adopting the language of 
the Scripture, "you shall go to her, but she shall not come 
again to you." 

13. "Let me go then," said William: "let me go that I 
may rise with mother." 

"William," said I, pointing down to the plants just break- 
ing through the ground, "the seed which was sown there, 
would not have come up, if. it had not been ripe : so you must 
wait till your appointed time ; until your end cometh." 

"Then I shall see her I" 

" I surely hope so." 

"I will wait, then," said the child; "but I thought I 
should see her soon : I thought I should meet her here." 

14. In a month William ceased to wait. He died, and 
they opened his mother's grave, and placed his little cofiBn on 
hers. It was the only wish the child expressed when dying. 
Better teachers than I had instructed him in the way to meet 



230 



THE THIRD READEE. 



his mother ; and young as the little sufferer was, he had learned 
that all the labors and hopes of happiness, short of heaven, are 
profitless and vain. 




59. Adoration of the Shepherds. 

THERE were in the neighborhood of Bethlehem some 
shepherds watching their flocks by night. They saw the 
radiance visible in the heavens ; they heard the angelic voices 
and were struck with awe. Immediately one of the blessed 
spirits who were singing glory to God and peace to men, 
detached himself from the heavenly host, and coming to the 
shepherds, said : "Fear not, for behold I bring you tidings of 
great joy, that shall be to all the people. This day is born to 
you a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord, in the city of David. 
And this shall be a sign unto you : you shall find the infant 
wrapped in swaddling clothes, and laid in a manger." The 
angel spoke and then vanished, like a stray beam of light. 

2, And the shepherds, stunned and stupefied, said one to 
another ; " Let us go over to Bethlehem ; and let us see this 



ADORATION OF THE SHEPHERDS. 231 

word that is come to pass, which the Lord hath shown to 
us." And leaving their flocks they went, and they saw the 
holy old man St. Joseph, the Virgin Mary, and the infant 
God, wrapped in swaddling-clothes, and laid in a manger. 
And they adored him. And they went away joyfully, telling 
everywhere the wonders they had seen. 

3. Now, children, was not this birth of the Son of God a 
great miracle ? It seems as though the whole earth should 
have been in motion to receive him : yet he is born by night 
in a poor stable 1 — And by what a sign was he recognized — 
"You will find the child wrapped in swaddling-clothes and 
laid in a manger ! " What then I Could he not be born in a 
palace, amid kingly splendor, he the Creator and Master of 
all things ? He could, if such had been his will, but it was 
not : that sign would not have marked him out sufficiently as 
our Saviour. 

4. Remember, children, what I have told you he came to 
do ; he came to instruct and save us. To instruct us, he 
had to heal a triple wound in our soul — pride, avarice, and 
love of pleasure : this he did by presenting himself to us under 
the sign of humility, poverty, and suffering. To save us, he 
had to expiate our faults by his pains ; hence it was that he 
was born in a stable. In beginning to live, he begins to do 
two great things, which we shall see him follow up in after 
years by preaching and sacrifice ; from the crib he is our 
Teacher and our Saviour. Nevertheless, we cannot mistake 
him in the humbleness of his birth. 

5. That little child who cannot yet speak, is the very Son 
of God, his eternal Word. Hear the evangelist St. John : 
"In the beginning, before all beginning, without beginning, 
was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word 
was God. All things were made by him, and without him was 
made nothing that was made. In him was life, and the Hfe was 
the light of men. That was the true light which enlighteneth 
every man that cometh into this world. And the Word was 
made flesh, and dwelt among us ; and we saw his glory, the 
glory as of the only-begotten of the Father, full of grace and 
truth." 



232 THE THIRD EEADEE. 

6. The prophets sang : "Great is the Lord, and worthy of 
all praise ! " We sing around his manger : Small is the Lord, 
a little helpless child, and worthy of all love. O child, the 
fairest of all children, where do I behold thee ? what destitu- 
tion I what nakedness 1 what sufferings ! He is laid on straw ; 
the night is cold and frosty : thus does love suffer ! He 
weeps, he utters plaintive cries : thus does love speak I Who 
would not love a God who has so loved us ? 

t. Mary and Joseph were amazed at all these things, and 
they gathered and treasured them in their hearts. Happy 
Mary I happy Joseph I You it was that first beheld the 
Saviour of the world ! It was your hands that received him 
as he came from the maternal womb, wrapped him in swad- 
dling-clothes, and laid him in the manger. Mary, it was thou 
that nursed him I Adore him as thou performest that sweet 
duty, and give admission to the other worshippers sent by the 
angels ; soon there shall be others conducted from the far 
East by a star, appearing as a prophetic sign in the heavens. 



60. The Angelus Bell. 

1. rriHE large moon of autumn, 
-L The guardian of night. 
Had closed her pale lamp 

In the firmament's height ; 
From the Black Abbey's towers 

The wild doves career'd. 
As the bright dawn of morn 

Awakmg appear'd ; 
And the old marble city, 
From campanile gray, 
Proclaim'd to the burghers 
All Noreward — "'twas day I " 
Then the long, mellow knell 
Of the Angelus Bell 



THE ANGELUS BELL. 233 

Seem'd psalming and singing 

O'er bless'd crypt and cell, 

Where the Black Monks were wont 

In the old times to dwell. 
* * * * * 

2. 'Twas noon, at the market-cross, 

In the quaint town, 

And the burgher so comely, 

The tall peasant brown. 

And the gaunt man-at-arms, 

And mild maiden meek, 

With the peach-blush of beauty 

And peace on her cheek, 

Were crowding together 

In hundreds around, 

While the tall cross stoQd stately 

'Mid tumult and sound. 

Then the long, mellow knell 

Of the Angelus Bell 

Upon the dense crowd 

In the market-place fell ; 

And the burgher knelt down, 

And the peasant as well. 

And the gaunt soldier rude, 

At the peal of the bell, 

While the pure maiden voice 

Join'd the long, mellow knelL 

2. 'Twas night o'er the abbey. 

The moon 'rose again 
O'er grand domes of pleasure 

And the poor haunts of pain ; 
And the wild dove was nestled 

Again in the cleft 
Of the old belfry tower 

That early he left ; 
And the pale monks were sitting 

Alone and alone, 



234 THE THIRD READER. 

With lamps still unlighted, 
And penitent moan ; 

When the Angelas Bell, 

With its long, mellow knell, 
Broke up their lone reveries 

Like a blest spell ; 
And down on the cold earth 

The holy men fell, 
The grand prayer to chant 

And their long beads to tell ; 
While sang with its psalm-voice 

The Angelas BeU. 



61. Tee Adoration of the Magi. 

WHEN the eastern sages beheld this wondroas and long- 
expected star, they rejoiced greatly ; and they arose, and 
taking leave of their lands and their vassals, their relations and 
their friends, set forth on their long and periloas joarney over 
vast deserts and mountains, and broad rivers, the star going 
before them, and arrived at length at Jerusalem, with a great 
and splendid train of attendants. Being come there they asked 
at once, "Where is he who is born King of the Jews?" 

2. On hearing this question, King Herod was troubled, and 
all the city with him ; and he inquired of the chief priests 
where Christ should be born. And they said to him "In 
Bethlehem of Juda," Then Herod privately called the wise 
men, and desired they would go to Bethlehem, and search for 
the young child (he was careful not to call him King), say- 
ing, "When ye have found him, bring me word, that I also 
may come and worship him." 

3. So the Magi departed, and the star which they had seen 
in the east went before them, until it stood over the place 
where the young child was — he who was born King of kings. 
They had travelled many a long and weary mile ; " and what 
had they come to see ? " Instead of a sumptuous palace^ a 



THE ADOKATION OP THE MAGI. 



235 



mean and lowly dwelling ; in place of a monarch surrounded 
by his guards and ministers and all the terrors of his state, an 
infant wrapped in swaddling-clothes and laid upon his mother's 
kee, between the ox and the ass. 

4. They had come, perhaps, from some far-distant savage 
land, or from some nation calling itself civilized, where inno- 
cence had never been accounted sacred, where society had as 







Si&skJ^^. 



yet taken no heed of the defenceless woman, no care for the 
helpless child ; where the one was enslaved, and the other 
perverted ; and here, under the form of womanhood and 
childhood, they were called upon to worship the promise of 
that brighter future, when peace should inherit the earth, and 
righteousness prevail over deceit, and gentleness with wisdom 
reign for ever and ever ! 

5. How must they have been amazed ! how must they have 



236 THE THIBD READER. 

wondered in their souls at such a revelation I — ^yet such was 
the faith of these wise men and excellent kings, that they at 
once prostrated themselves, confessing in the glorious Innocent 
who smiled upon them from his mother's knee, a greater than 
themselves — the image of a truer divinity than they had ever 
yet acknowledged. 

6. And having bowed themselves down — first, as was most 
fit, offering themselves, — they made offering of their treasure, 
as it had been written in ancient times, " The kings of Tar- 
shish and the isles shall bring presents, and the kings of Sheba 
shall offer gifts." And what were these gifts ? Gold, frank- 
incense, and myrrh ; by which mystical oblation they professed 
a threefold faith ; — by gold, that he was king ; by incense, that 
he was God ; by myrrh, that he was man, and doomed to 
death. 

1. In return for their gifts, the Saviour bestowed upon 
them others of more matchless price. For their gold he gave 
them charity and spiritual riches ; for their incense, perfect 
faith ; and for their myrrh, perfect truth and meekness : and 
the Virgin, his mother, also bestowed on them a precious gift 
and memorial, namely, one of those linen bands in which she 
had wrapped the Saviour, for which they thanked her with 
great humility, and laid it up among their treasures. 

8. When they had performed their devotions and made 
their offerings, being warned in a dream to avoid Herod, they 
turned back again to their own dominions ; and the star which 
had formerly guided them to the west, now went before them 
towards the east, and led them safely home. When they were 
arrived there, they laid down their earthly state ; and in em- 
ulation of the poverty and humility in which they had found 
the Lord of all power and might, they gave all their goods 
and possessions to the poor, and went about in mean attire, 
preaching to their people the new kmg of heaven and earth, 
the Child-King, the Prince of Peace. 

9. We are not told what was the success of their mission ; 
neither is it anywhere recorded, that from that time forth, 
every child, as it sat on its mother's knee, was, even for the 
sake of that Prince of Peace, regarded as sacred — as the heir 



lONA. 



237 



of a divine nature — as one whose tiny limbs enfolded a spirit 
■which was to expand into the man, the king, the God. 

10. Such a result was, perhaps, reserved for other times, 
when the whole mission of that divine Child should be better 
understood than it was then, or is now. But there is an an- 
cient tradition, that about forty years later, when St. Thomas 
the Apostle travelled into the Indies, he found these wise men 
there, and administered to them the rite of baptism ; and 
that afterwards, in carrying the light of truth into the far 
East, they fell among barbarous Gentiles, and were put to 
death ; thus each of them receiving in return for the earthly 
crowns they had cast at the feet of the Saviour, the heavenly 
crown of martyrdom and of everlasting life. 




62. lONA. 



SLOWLY and sadly the company of Druids retired to their 
homes in the depth of the ancient wood, and not many 
hours had passed when they quitted lona forever, and with 
it resigned the religious supremacy of those far Western Isles, 
where they had for ages ruled almost as gods. 



238. THE THTBD KEADER. 

2. After solemnly blessing tlie little island, St. Columb- 
kille proceeded to erect a stately monastery and a spacious 
chm'cli. Some years after, he founded a convent of Augus- 
tinian nuns, and the lonely isle of lona was soon as famous 
for Christian piety as it had formerly been for heathen super- 
stition. It had early been chosen as a burial-place for the 
princes of the Pictish and Scottish monarchies, on account of 
its remote and isolated position, and the sacred character it 
had acquired. These causes continued to influence the neigh- 
boring sovereigns, in a still higher degree, after the island had 
become a distinguished seat of the Christian rehgion. 

3. Even now, after the lapse of many centuries since 
prince, or king, or bishop, was buried in lona, the traveller 
may stiU behold the ruined monuments which marked their 
place of rest. "A little to the north of the cathedral," says 
a modern writer, " are the remains of the bishop's house ; and 
on the south is a chapel dedicated to St. Oran, almost entire, 
sixty feet long and twenty-two broad, within the walls, but 
nearly filled up with rubbish and monumental stones. In this 
are many tombstones of marble, erected over the great lords 
of the Isles. 

4. " South of the chapel is an inclosure called Keihg Ouran, 
the hurying-ground of Oran, containing a great number of 
tombs, but so overgrown with weeds as to render most of the 
inscriptions illegible. In this inclosure lie the remains of 
forty-eight Scottish kings, four kings of Ireland, eight Nor- 
wegian monarchs, and one king of France, who were desirous 
of reposing on this consecrated ground, where their ashes 
should not mix with the dust of the vulgar." 

5. Sic transit gloria mundij might well be inscribed over 
the forgotten graves of lona, where so many princes and 
mighty men have mouldered into dust — where the architec- 
tural glories of former ages Me around in broken and shape- 
less masses. 

"The column, with its capital, is level with the dust, 
And the proud halls of the mighty, and the calm homes of the just, 
For the proudest works of man, as certainly, but slower, 
Pass like the grass a,t the sharp scythe of the mower ! 



ST. COLUMBA BLESSING THE ISLES. 239 

" But the grass grows again when in majesty and mirth, 
On the wing of the Spring comes the Goddess of the Earth ; 
But for man, in this world, no spring-tide e'er returns 
To the labors of his hands or the ashes of his urns." 



63. St. Columba Blessing the Isles. 

1. A ND now the choral voices hush'd, 
-Lx. And ceased the organ tone ; 

As to the altar-steps, high raised, 

Sad, silent, and alone, 
The traveller pass'd. To him all eyes 

Turn'd reverent as he trod. 
And whispering voices, each to each, 

Proclaim'd the man of God — 
Columba, in his ancient place, 
Radiant with glory and with grace. 

2. Back fell his cowl — his mantle dropp'd, 

And in a stream of light, 
A halo round his aged head, 

And robed in dazzMng white — 
The saint with smiles of heavenly love 

Stretch'd forth his hands to pray. 
And kings and thanes, and monks and jarls, 

Knelt down in their array. 
Silent, with pallid lips compress'd. 
And hands cross'd humbly on their breast. 

3. He craved a blessing on the Isles, 

And named them, one by one — 
Fair western isles that love the glow 

Of the departing sun. 
From Arran looming in the south, 

To northern Orcades, 
Then to lona back again. 

Through all those perilous seas, 



240 THE THIBD EEADER. 

Three nights and days the saint had fiail'd, 
To count the Hebrides. 

4. He loved them for lona's sake, 

The isle of prayer and praise, 
Where Truth and Knowledge found a home 

When fall'n on evil days. 
And now he bless'd them, each and all, 

And pray'd that evermore, 
Plenty and peace, and Christian love, 

Might smile on every shore, 
And that their mountain glens might be 
The abiding-places of the free. 

6. Then, as he ceased, kings, abbots, earls, 

And all the shadowy train. 
Rose from their knees, and choral songs 

Ke-echoed loud agam — 
And then were hush'd — the lights burned dim, 

And ere the dawn of day, 
The saint and all the ghostly choir 

Dissolved in mist away : 
Aerial voices sounding still 
Sweet harmonies from Duni's hilL 

6. And every year Columba makes, 

While yet the summer smiles, 
Alone, within his spectral boat. 

The circuit of the Isles ; — 
And monks and abbots, thanes and kings, 

From vault and charnel start, 
Disburied, in the rite to bear 

Their dim, allotted part. 
And crave, upon their bended knees, 
A blessing on the Hebrides. 



THE OBSERVING JUDGE. 241 



64. The Observing Judge. 

11*^ a district of Algeria, distinguished by a name which, 
being translated, signifies The Fine Country, there lived, in 
the year 1850, an Arab chief or sheik, named Bou-Akas, who 
held despotic sway over twelve tribes. 

2. Having heard that the cadi, or judge, over one of these 
twelve tribes, administered justice in an admirable manner, 
and pronounced decisions worthy of King Solomon himself, 
Bou-Akas determined to judge for himself as to the truth of 
the report. 

3. Accordingly, dressed like a private individual, without 
arms or attendants, he set out for the cadi's town, mounted 
on a docile Arabian steed. He arrived there and was just 
entering the gate, when a cripple, seizing the border of his 
mantle, asked him for alms. 

4. Bou-Akas gave him money, but the cripple still main- 
tained his hold. "What dost thou want ?" asked the sheik ; 
"I have already-given thee alms." "Yes," replied the beg- 
gar ; "but the law says, not only 'thou shalt give alms to thy 
brother,' but also, ' thou shalt do for thy brother whatsoever 
thou canst.'" 

5. "Well; and what can I do for thee?" "Thou canst 
save me — poor, crawling creature that I am ! — ^from being 
trodden under the feet of men, horses, mules, and camels, 
which would certainly happen to me in passing through the 
crowded square, in which a fair is now going on." 

6. " And how can I save thee ? " " By letting me ride 
behind you, and putting me down safely in the market-place, 
where I have business." " Be it so," replied the sheik. And, 
stooping down, he helped the cripple to get up behind him ; 
which was not accomplished without much difficulty. 

7. The strangely-assorted couple attracted many eyes as 
they passed through the crowded streets ; and at length they 
reached the market-place. " Is this where you wish to stop ?'' 
asked Bou-Akas. "Yes." "Then get down." "Get down 
yourself.^' "What for ? " " To leave me the horse." 

11 



242 THE THIED EEADEB. 

8. "To leave you my horse ! What mean you by that ?" 
"I mean that he belongs to me. Know you not that we are 
now in the town of the just cadi, and that if we bring the 
case before him he will certainly decide in my favor ? " '' Why 
should he do so, when the animal belongs to me ? " 

9. "Do you not think th-'. when he sees us two, — you 
with your strong, straight limbs, so well fitted for walking, 
and I with my weak legs, and distorted feet, — he will decree 
that the horse shall belong to him who has most need of 
him?" "Should he do so, he would not be the jud cadi," 
said Bou-Akas. 

10. "Oh! as to that," replied the cripple, laughing, "al- 
though he is just, he is not infallible." "So !" thought the 
sheik to himself, "this will be a capital opportunity of judging 
the judge." Then turning to the cripple, he said aloud, "I 
am content — we will go before the cadi." 



65. The Observing Judge — continued. 

ARRIVED at the tribunal, where the judge, according to 
the Eastern custom, was publicly administering justice, 
they found that two trials were about to go on, and would, 
of course, take precedence of theirs. The first was between 
a taleb, or learned man, and a peasant. 

2. The point in dispute was the taleb's wife, whom the 
peasant had carried off, and whom he asserted to be his own 
better half, in the face of the philosopher, who demanded her 
back again. The woman (strange circumstance !) remained 
obstinately silent, and would not declare for either ; a feature 
in the case which rendered its decision extremely diflScult. 

3. The cadi heard both sides attentively, reflected for a 
moment, and then said, "Leave the woman here, and return 
to-morrow." The learned man and the laborer each bowed 
and retired, and the next case was called. This was a differ- 
ence between a butcher and an oil-seller. The latter appeared 



THE OBSERVING JUDGE. 243 

covered with oil, and the former was sprinkled with blood. 
The butcher spoke first and said : 

4. "I went to buy some oil from this man, and, in order 
to pay him for it, I drew a handful of money from my purse. 
The sight of the money tempted him. He seized me by the 
wrist. I cried out, but he would not let me go ; and here we 
are, having come before your worship, I holding my money in 
my hand, and he still grasping my wrist." 

5. Then spoke the oil-merchant : "This man came to pur- 
chase oil from me. When his bottle was filled he said, ' Have 
you change for a piece gold?' I searched my pocket, and 
drew out my hand full of money, which I laid on a bench in 
my shop. He seized it, and was walking off with my money 
and my oil, when I caught him by the wrist, and cried out, 
' Robber I ' In spite of my cries, however, he would not sur- 
render the money ; so I brought him here, that your worship 
might decide the case." 

6. The cadi caused each to repeat his story, but neither 
varied one jot from his original statement. He reflected for 
a moment, and then said, "Leave the money with me, and 
return to-morrow." The butcher placed the coins, which he 
had never let go, on the edge of the cadi's mantle. After 
which, he and his opponent bowed and departed. 

7. It was now the turn of Bou-Akas and the cripple. 
"My lord cadi," said the former, "I came hither from a dis- 
tant country. At the city gate I met this cripple, who first 
asked for alms, and then prayed me to allow him to ride be- 
hind me through the streets, lest he should be trodden down 
in the crowd. I consented, but when we reached the market- 
place he refused to get down, asserting that my horse belonged 
to him, and that your lordship would surely adjudge it to him 
who wanted it most." 

8. Then spoke the cripple. "My lord," said he, "as I 
was coming on business to the market, and riding this horse, 
which belongs to me, I saw this man seated by the roadside, 
apparently half dead from fatigue. I offered to let him ride 
with me as far as the market-place, and he eagerly thanked 
me. But, on our arrival, he refused to get down, and said 



244 THE THIRD READER. 

that the horse was his. I immediately required him to ap- 
pear before your worship, in order that you might decide 
between us." 

9. Having requh'ed each to make oath to his statement, 
and having reflected for a moment, the cadi said, "Leave 
the horse here, and return to-morrow." It was done, and 
Bou-Akas and the cripple withdrew in different directions. 



66. The Obseryinq Judge — concluded, 

ON the morrow, a number of persons, besides those imme- 
diately interested in the trials, assembled to hear the 
judge's decisions. The taleb, or learned man, and the peasant, 
were called first. "Take away thy wife," said the cadi to the 
former, "and keep her, I advise thee, in good order." Then 
turning towards an officer, he added, pointing to the peasant, 
" Give this man fifty blows." He was instantly obeyed, and 
the taleb carried off his wife. 

2. Then came forward the oil-merchant and the butcher. 
"Here," said the cadi to the butcher, "is thy money ; it is 
truly thine, and not his." Then pointing to the oH-merchant, 
he said to his officer, "Give this man fifty blows." It was 
done, and the butcher went away in triumph with his money. 

3. The third cause was called, and Bou-Akas and the crip- 
ple came forward. " Wouldst thou recognize thy horse among 
twenty others ? " said the judge to Bou-Akas. " Yes, my 
lord." " And thou ? " " Certainly, my lord," replied the crip- 
ple. " Follow me," said the cadi to Bou-Akas. They entered 
a large stable, and Bou-Akas pointed out his horse among the 
twenty which were standing side by side. 

4. "'Tis well," said the judge. "Return now to the tribu- 
nal, and send me thine adversary hither." The disguised 
shiek obeyed, delivered his message, and the cripple hastened 
to the stable as quickly as his distorted Umbs allowed. He 
had quick eyes and a good memory, so that he was able, with- 



THE OBSEKVING JUDGE. 245 

out the slightest hesitation, to place his hand on the right 
animal. 

5. '"Tis well," said the cadi; "return to the tribunal." 
The cadi soon afterwards resumed his place, and, when the 
cripple arrived, judgment was pronounced. "The horse is 
thine," said the cadi to Bou-Akas ; "go to the stable and take 
him." Then to the officer, "Give this cripple fifty blows." 
It was done ; and Bou-Akas went to take his horse. 

6. When the cadi, after concluding the business of the day, 
was retiring to his house, he found Bou-Akas waiting for him. 
"Art thou discontented with my award?" asked the judge. 
"No, quite the contrary," replied the sheik. "But I want 
to ask by what inspiration thou hast rendered justice ; for I 
doubt not that the other two causes were decided as equitably 
as mine. I am not a merchant : I am Bou-Akas, sheik of the 
twelve tribes, and I wanted to judge for myself of thy reputed 
wisdom." 

7. The cadi bowed to the ground, and kissed his master's 
hand. " 1 am anxious," said Bou-Akas, " to know the rea- 
sons which determined your three decisions." " Nothing, my 
lord," replied the cadi, " can be more simple. Your highness 
saw that I detained for a night the three things in dispute ? " 
" I did." 

8. "Well, early in the morning I caused the woman to be 
called, and I said to her suddenly, ' Put fresh ink in my ink- 
stand.' Like a person who has done the same thing a hun- 
dred times before, she took the bottle, removed the cotton, 
washed them both, put in the cotton again, and poured in 
fresh ink, doing it all with the utmost neatness and dexterity. 
So I said to myself, 'A peasant's wife would know nothing 
about inkstands — she must belong to the taleb.'" 

9. " Good !" said Bou-Akas, nodding his head. "And the 
money?" "Did your highness remark," asked the cadi, 
" that the merchant had his clothes and hands covered with 
oil?" "Certainly I did." "Well; I took the money, and 
placed it in a vessel filled with water. This morning I looked 
at it, and not a particle of oil wa-s to be seen on the surface 
of the water. So I said to myself, ' If this money belonged 



246 THE THIRD READER. 

to the oil-merchant, it would be greasy, from the touch of his 
hands ; as it is not so, the butcher's story must be true.' " 

10. Bou-Akas nodded in token of approval. "Good!" 
said he. "And my horse?" "Ah! that was a different 
business ; and, until this morning, I was greatly puzzled." 
"The cripple, I suppose, did not recognize the animal?'' 
remarked the sheik. "On the contrary," said the cadi, "he 
pointed him out immediately." " How, then, did you discover 
that he was not the owner ? " 

11. " My object," replied the cadi, "in bringing you sep- 
arately to the stable, was not to see whether you would know 
the horxe, but whether the horse would acknowledge you. 
^^ow, when you approached him, the creature turned towards 
you, laid back his ears, and neighed with delight ; but when 
the cripple touched him, he kicked. Then I knew that you 
were truly his master." 

12. Bou-Akas thought for a moment, and then said, 
"Allah has given thee great wisdom. Thou oughtest to be 
in my place, and I in thine. And yet, I know not ; thou art 
certainly Avorthy to be sheik, but I fear that I should but 
badly fill thy place as cadi ! " 



67. Henry the Hermit. 

IT was an island where he dwelt, 
A solitary islet, bleak and bare. 
Short scanty herbage spotting with dark spots 
Its gray stone surface. Never mariner 
Approach'd that rude and uninviting coast, 
Nor ever fisherman his lonely bark 
Anchor'd beside its shore. It was a place 
Befitting well a rigid anchoret. 
Dead to the hopes, and vanities, and joys, 
And purposes of life ; and he had dwelt 
Many long years upon that lonely isle ; 
For in ripe manhood he abandon'd arms, 



HENRY, THE HERMIT. 



247 



Honors and friends and country and the world, 
And had grown old in solitude. That isle 
Some solitary man in other times 
Had made his dwelling-place ; and Henry found 
The little chapel which his toil had built 




Now by the storms unroof 'd ; his bed of leaves 
Wind-scatter'd ; and his grave o'ergrown with grass, 
And thistles, whose white seeds, winged in vain, 
Wither'd on rocks, or in the waves were lost. 
So she repair'd the chapel's ruin'd roof, 



248 THE THIRD READEE. 

Clear'd the gray lichens from the altar-stone. 

And underneath a rock that shelter'd him 

From the sea-blast, he built his hermitage. 

The peasants from the shore would bring him food, 

And beg his prayers ; but human converse else 

He knew not in that utter sohtude, 

Nor ever visited the haunts of men, 

Save when some sinful wretch on a sick-bed 

Implored his blessing and his aid in death. 

That summons he delay'd not to obey, 

Though the night tempest or autumnal wind 

Madden'd the waves ; and though the mariner, 

Albeit relying on his saintly load. 

Grew pale to see the peril. Thus he lived 

A most austere and self-denying man, 

Till abstinence, and age, and watchfulness 

Had worn him down, and it was pain at last 

To rise at midnight from his bed of leaves 

And bend his knees in prayer. Yet not the less, 

Though with reluctance of infirmity. 

Rose he at midnight from his bed of leaves. 

And bent his knees in prayer ; but with more zeal, 

More self-condemning fervor, raised his voice 

For pardon for that sin, 'till that the sin 

Repented was a joy like a good deed. 

One night upon the shore his chapel bell 

Was heard ; the air was calm, and its far sounds 

Over the water came distinct and loud. 

Alarm'd at that unusual hour to hear 

Its toll irregular, a monk arose, 

The boatmen bore him willingly across, 

For well the hermit Henry was beloved. 

He hastened to the chapel ; on a stone 

Henry was sitting there, cold, stiff, and deaC, 

The bell-rope in his hand, and at his feet 

The lamp that stream'd a long unsteady light. 



GOD IS EVERYWHERE. 249 




68. God is Everywhere. 

COME, Edith, and look at the ship saihng out of the bay," 
said Charles to his sister. " See how gracefully she floats 
upon the water. She is going far away, thousands of miles, 
and will not be back for many months." 

2. " Perhaps she will never come back," said Edith, as she 
came to the window, and stood, with her brother, looking at 
the noble vessel, just sailing out upon the broad, pathless, 
stormy ocean. "I would not be in her for the world ! " 

3. "Why not, Edith?" asked Charles. "Oh I I am sure 
I should be drowned," replied the little girl. 

4. "You would be just as safe as you are here," said 
Charles. " You know, father tells us that we are as safe in 
one place as in another, for the Lord, who takes care of us, is 
everywhere." 

5. "But think how many people are drowned at sea, 
Charles?" "And think how many people are killed on the 
land," replied Charles. " Don't you remember the anecdote 
father told us one day about a sailor. 

6. " There was a great storm, and the ship was in much 
dangei Many of the passengers were terribly frightened, but 
this sailor was as calm as if the sun was shining above, and 
the sea undisturbed below. ' Are you not afraid ? ' said one 
of the passengers. 'No,' replied the sailor, 'why should I 

11- 



250 THE THIRD KEADER. 

be afraid ? ' ' We may all be drowned/ said tlie passenger. 
' All of us have once to die/ calmly returned the sailor. 

7. " The passenger was surprised to see the man's compo- 
sure. ' Have you followed the sea long ? ' he asked. * Ever 
since I was a boy ; and my father followed it before me. ' 

8. " ' Indeed ! And where did your father die ? ' 'He was 
drowned at sea/ repHed the sailor. 'And your grandfather, 
where did he die ? ' ' He was also drowned at sea/ said the 
sailor. * Father and grandfather drowned at sea ! ' exclaimed 
the passenger in astonishment, ' and you not afraid to go to 
sea ? ' ' No ! God is everywhere,' said the sailor reverently. 

9. '"And now/ he added, after pausing a moment, 'may I 
ask you where your father died?' 'In his bed,' rephed the 
passenger. ' And where did his father die ? ' ' In his bed,' 
was again answered. ' Are you not, then, afraid to go to 
bed,' said the sailor, 'if your father and grandfather both 
died there?'" 

10. "Oh yes ! I remember it very well now," said Edith. 
"I know that the Lord takes care of us always, wherever we 
may be. I know that he is everywhere present." 

11. "And he will take as good care of the people in that 
ship as he does of those who are on the land," rephed Charles. 
" Father says that we should always go where our duties call 
us, whether it be upon land or upon sea, for the Lord can and 
will protect us as much in one place as in another." 



69. Anecdote of Frederick the Great. 

FREDERICK the Great, king of Prussia, having rung 
his bell one day, and nobody answering, opened the door 
where his page was usually in waiting, and found him asleep 
on a sofa. 

2. He was going to awake him, when he perceived the end 
of a billet or letter hanging out of his pocket. Having the 
curiosity to know its contents, he took and read it, and found 
it was a letter from his mother, thanking him for having sent 



A SMALL CATECHISM. 251 

her a part of his wages to assist her in her distress, and con- 
cluding with beseeching God to bless hini for his filial attention 
to her wants. 

3. The king returned softly to his room, took a purse of 
ducats, and slid them with the letter into the page's pocket. 
Returning to his apartment, he rung so violently that the 
page awoke, opened the door, and entered. 

4. "You have slept well," said the king. The page made 
an apology, and, in his confusion, he happened to put his hand 
into his pocket, and felt with astonishment the purse. He 
drew it out, turned pale, and looking at the king, burst into 
tears, without being able to speak a word. 

5. "What is the matter?" asked the king; "what ails 
you?" "Ah, sir," said the young man, throwing himself at 
his feet, " somebody has wished to ruin me. I know not how 
I came by this money in my pocket." 

6. "My friend," said Frederick, "God often sends us good 
in our sleep. Give the money to your mother ; salute her in my 
name, and assure her that I shall take care of her and yvuJ^ 

7. This story furnishes an excellent instance of the gratitude 
and duty which children owe to their aged, infirm, or unfortu- 
nate parents. 

8. And, if the children of such parents will follow the ex- 
ample of Frederick's servant, though they may not meet with 
the reward that was conferred on him, they shall be amply 
recompensed by the pleasing testimony of their own minds, 
and by that God who approves, as he has commanded, every 
expression of filial love. 



70. A Small Catechism. 

1. TI7HY are children's eyes so bright ? 
'V Tell me why?" 

"'Tis because the mfinite, 
Which they've left is still in sight. 
And they know no worldly blight — 

Therefore 'tis their eyes are bright." 



252 THE THIRD READER. 

2. "Why do children laugh so gay ? 

Tell me why?" 
'"Tis because their hearts have play 
la their bosoms, every day, 
Free from sin and sorrow's sway — 

Therefore, 'tis they laugh so gay." 

3. "Why do children speak so free ? 

Tell me why?" 
'"Tis because from fallacy, 
Cant, and seeming, they are free, 
Hearts, not lips, their organs be — 
Therefore, 'tis they speak so free." 

4. "Why do children love so true ? 

Tell me why?" 
"'Tis because they cleave unto, 
A familiar fav'rite few. 
Without art or self in view — • 

Therefore children love so true." 



71. The Prodigal Son. 

A CERTAIN man had two sons. And the younger of 
them said to his father : ' Father, give me the portion 
of substance that falleth to me.' And he divided unto them 
his substance. 

2. "And not many days after, the younger son gathering 
all together, went abroad into a far country, and there wasted 
his substance by living riotously. And after he had spent all, 
there came a mighty famine in that country, and he began to 
be in want. 

3. " And he went, and joined himself to one of the citizens 
of that country. And he sent him into his farm, to feed his 
swine : and he would fain have filled his belly with the husks 
ihe swine did eat : and no man g-ave unto him. 



THE PKODIGAL SON. 



253 



4. " And returning to himself, he said : ' How many hired 
servants in my father's house have plenty of bread, and I here 
perish with hunger ! I will arise, and I will go to my father, 
and say to him : Father, I have sinned against heaven, and 
before thee ; I am not now worthy to be called thy son ; 
make me as one of thy hired servants.' And rising up, he 
went to his father 




5. " And when he was yet a great way off, his father saw 
him, and was moved with compassion, and, running to him, 
fell upon his neck, and kissed him. And the son said to him : 
' Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee I I 
am not now worthy to be called thy son.' 

6. "But the father said to his servants : 'Bring forth 
quickly the first robe, and put it on him, and jout a ring on his 
hand, and shoes on his feet : and bring, hither the fatted calf, 
and kill it, and let us eat and be merry ; because this my sou 
was dead, and is come to life again : he was lost and is found,' 
And they began to be merry 

*I. " Now his elder son was in the field : and when he came, 
and drew nigh to the house, he heard music and dancing : and 



25-i THE THIED READER. 

he called one of the servants, and asked what these things 
meant. And he said to him : ' Thy brother is come, and thy 
father hath killed the fatted calf, because he hath received him 
safe.' And he was angry, and would not go in. 

8. ''His father, therefore, coming out, began to entreat 
him. And he, answering, said to his father : ' Behold, for so 
many years I serve thee, and I have never transgressed thy 
commandment ; and yet thou hast never given me a kid to 
make merry with my friends : but as soon as this thy son is 
come, who hath devoured his substance with harlots, thou 
hast killed for him the fatted calf.' 

9. "Bat the father said to him: 'Son, thou art always 
with me, and all I have is thine. But it was fit that we should 
make merry and be glad : for this thy brother was dead, and 
is come to life again : he was lost, and is found.'" 

10. After this parable, so tender and so touching ; after 
this language, so simple and yet so profound, so far beyond 
all human conceptions ; after these lofty revelations of the 
world, of life, of the human heart, and of Grod, one would wish 
to speak but cannot : the heart is full, but we cannot give 
expression to our feelings. What shall I tell you, children ? 
do you not understand, do you not feel the parable, that this 
father is God ? that these two sons are men, the children of 
God, some faithful, others unfaithful to their father ? 

11. If it is the youngest who leaves the paternal house, it 
is because that it is in youth, the age of weakness and inex- 
perience, that the errors and sad excesses of life usually occur. 
When a man has remained faithful to God, on through youth 
to mature age, the age of strength and reason, it is very 
rarely that he falls away from his service at a later period. 

12. That a prodigal squanders away his substance in the 
distant country to which he betakes himself, you can also 
easily understand. At the very moment when one abandons 
God, he loses all the treasures of the soul, sm robs him of all. 
That there is famine in that strange land, how could it be 
otherwise ? God is the only source of life, of good, of happi- 
ness ; away from hmi, what can there be but famine, indigence, 
and miserv ! 



BLANCHE OF CASTILE. / 255 

13. Then, instead of serving a father, the sinner becomes 
the slave of a master, and a master as cruel and pitiless as the 
father was kind and good. In that degrading bondage, all is 
forgotten ; nobility of birth, generous sentiments, all, all is 
lost sight of, and the wretched slave humbles himself, at the 
bidding of his tyrant, even to feed swine, that is to say, the 
shameful passions of the heart ; and he is repaid for this 
degradation by having himself no other food but that which 
feeds the swine, namely, filthy pleasures and degrading ex- 
cesses. 

14. The new tyrant thus served, the passion which has 
enslaved the soul, takes pleasure in debasing and insulting its 
slave in the most cruel manner ; it humbles him to the very 
dust, and trails him through the mire : "Bow down," it says, 
" and let me pass ;" and he bows down, and it tramples him 
under its feet. 



72. Blanche of Castile. 

BLANCHE was the daughter of Alphonsus IX., king of 
Castile, and of Eleanor of England. From her childhood 
she displayed great firmness of character, and an austerity of 
manners far beyond her age. She was married at the age of 
thirteen to the young Prince Louis, eldest son of Philip Au- 
gustus, and who afterwards reigned under the title of Louis 
YIII. This union, which took place on the 23d of May, 1200, 
was one of the conditions of the peace concluded the same 
year between this monarch and the King of England, uncle to 
the bride. 

2. She was conducted to Normandy, where the marriage 
took place with a magnificence worthy of the three kingdoms 
interested in this alliance. Every fete and amusement then in 
vogue was inaugurated in honor of the occasion ; but the two 
betrothed were their most beautiful and graceful ornament. 
They were of the same age, and gifted with every quality 
which could attract the esteem and love of those who sur- 
rpunded them. The most flattering eulogy has been pro- 



256 THE THIRD EEADER. 

nounced on them, that they hved together for twenty-six years 
without a single disagreement. 

3. But the wit and wisdom of Blanche were no less re- 
markable than her beauty and nobleness of character ; so that 
her father-in-law. the king, would often consult her, and pay 
the greatest deference to her advice ; and so great was the 
ascendency she acquired over her husband, that he would in- 
sist on her presence in the council-chamber, and even on his 
military journeys. 

4. When Blanche became a mother, she displayed stili 
greater virtues. Esteeming it a great duty to nourish her 
children, she would not suffer this care to devolve on another 
The eldest of her sons dying at an early age, the second, 
being destined to rule over France, became the object of his 
mother's tenderest care. She seemed to foresee the glory 
which this prince would shed over his house, and at his birth 
ordered the church bells to be rung (which had ceased for fear 
of disturbing the queen), "to invite all the people to go and 
praise God for having given her so sweet a son " 

5. Blanche devoted herself entirely to the formation of the 
mind of this young prince. Every evening before they retired 
to rest, she took her children on her knee, caressed them with 
great affection, and told them some little anecdote of some 
virtuous action, so as to impress it on their infant minds. She 
repeatedly said to Louis — "My son, God knows how tenderly 
I love you ! but I would rather see you dead at my feet than 
guilty of one mortal sin ! " — words repeated from age to age 
to the praise of the good Blanche of Castile I 



73. Hail! Yiegin of Yirgins. 

1. TTAIL ! Virgin of virgins I 
-LI Thy praises we sing, 
Thy throne is in heaven, 
Thy Son is its King. 



m. 



HAIL, VIRGIN OF VIRGINS. 



257 



The saints and the angels 
Thy glory proclaim ; 

All nations devoutly 
Bow down at thy name. 




2. Let all sing of Mary, 

The mystical Rod, 
The Mirror of Justice 

The Handmaid of God. 
Let valley and mountain 

Unite in her praise ; 
The sea with its waters, 

The sun with its ravs. 



258 THE THIRD READER, 

3. Let souls that are holy- 

Still holier be, 
To sing with the angels, 

Sweet Mary, of thee. 
Let all who are sinners 

To virtue return, 
That hearts without number 

With thy love may burn, 

4. Thy name is our power, 

Thy love is our light ; 
We praise thee at morning. 

At noon and at night 
We thank thee, we bless thee, 

When happy and free j 
When, tempted by Satan, 

We call upon thee. 

5. The world does not love theej, 

beautiful one ! 
Because it despises 

The cross of thy Son. 
But thou art the Mother 

Of all Adam's race ; 
The birth-stain of Eva 

'Tis thine to efface. 

6. Oh ! be, then, our Mother, 

And pray to the Lord, 
That all may acknowledge 

And worship his Word ; 
That good men with courage 

May walk in his ways. 
And bad men converted 

May join in his praise. 



LEGEND OF DANIEL THE ANCHORET. 259 



74. Legend of Daniel the Anchoret. 

DANIEL the Anchoret knelt in prayer, and he grieved over 
the evil times upon which his lot had fallen. "The 
charity of God has gone from the earth and returned to 
heaven. She has folded her wings there near the throne, and 
purposes not to visit earth again. There is no one to yield 
the tear of sympathy, or the mite of relief to the poor of the 
Lord. There is no charity left upon the earth," said Daniel. 
He rose and trimmed the lamp that hung before his favorite 
shrine, and its rays lit up his cell with unwonted splendor. 

2. The stream of light seemed suddenly to grow into shape, 
and the holy man became suddenly aware of a jewelled sandal, 
a flowing robe, and a snowy wing, revealing the presence of an 
angel close by his side. He would have prostrated himself to 
venerate the messenger of God j but the angel forbade him, 
and motioned him to take his staff and sally forth from the 
hermitage. " Follow me and I will show thee one who hath 
true charity for the poor." 

3. The Anchoret folded his mantle about him, and bending 
his head, he followed the angel wheresoever he would lead. 
They went on until they entered the outskirts of the neigh- 
boring town, and there the angel stopped before an humble 
cottage and disappeared, leaving the Anchoret to contemplate 
the scene before him, and learn wisdom from what he might 
see. Blocks of marble and slabs of travertine, rough-shapened 
by the chisel, lay scattered round about, showing that the oc- 
cupant of the cottage folio wedHhe craft of a stone-dresser. 

4. The craftsman himself was seated in front of his door 
under a canopy formed by a luxuriant vine, now laden with 
bunches of purple grapes. Some ragged little children, and a 
few aged persons, nearly all bhnd or crippled, were grouped 
around the stone-mason, whose name, it appeared from the 
discourse which Daniel overheard, was Eulogius. He was 
instructing and encouraging his listeners to love God, be 
thankful to him for his mercies, and resigned to the trials and 
privations which had fallen to their share. 



260 THE THIED EEADER. 

5. It became clear, from tlie parting blessings of the poor, 
that they were to see him again on the morrow, and further- 
more, that he was in the habit each day of gathering them 
around him and distributing among them all his earnings 
not strictly necessary to supply his own simple wants. The 
Anchoret was charmed and edified beyond measure by all he 
had seen and heard. He rejoiced exceedingly and gave thanks 
to God. 

6. Here, then, was one true friend of the poor. But oh ! 
he began to think, what a pity it is that one who is so great 
of heart should be so poor himself, and able to do so little 
good. His charity is indeed unbounded ; but his means, alas ! 
are not equal to his good-will. And straightway the holy 
man betook himself to prayer, and he begged of God that the 
generous artisan might become rich and great ; for if he was 
so liberal in a condition bordering upon indigence, he would 
be much the more liberal with unlimited resources subject to 
his command. 

t. The angel appeared again to the Anchoret. "Thy 
prayer, O Daniel, is not a wise one ; it were not well for 
Eulogius to become rich." But Daniel could not help think- 
ing of the greater number of poor who would be reheved, and 
of the splendid example the virtuous and frugal Eulogius 
would give to other rich men, were he indeed to become rich 
himself He continued to pray that his wish might be 
granted, and in the fervor of his zeal he pledged himself to 
God as security for the good use his fellow-servant would 
make of wealth and power, were they to become his portion. 

8. So, then, God granted the prayer of the Anchoret, and 
he ordained that Eulogius, while hewing stone from the side 
of a hill, displaced a mass of loose fragments and earth, which 
took his feet from under him and threw him upon the ground. 
Eulogius was terrified ; but when the noise was over, and the 
dust had cleared away, he rose and saw lying at his feet a 
huge lump of pure shining gold. He was rich, and that 
neighborhood saw him no more, for, taking with him his 
wonderful treasure, he went to the court of Justin the Elder, 
and became a great general of the empire. 



LEGEND OF DANIEL THE ANCHORET. 261 



75. Legend of Daniel the Anchoeet — cordinued. 

SEVERAL years were past and gone, and Daniel the 
, Anchoret still continued to trim the little lamp that 
burned before the shrine in the mountain cave, which he had 
chosen for his cell. His head was now bent, his step was 
slower and less firm as he went down the mountain side to 
visit and console the neighboring poor, whom he loved so 
much. 

2. The old man's thoughts were fixed upon the future. 
His long hair and venerable beard were tufted with white, — 
"crests," he would say, "upon the wave of time about to 
break upon the shore of eternity." It chanced one night, 
about this season, that Daniel had knelt long in prayer, when 
it seemed to him to behold the throne of God suddenly 
erected as for a solemn judgment about to take place, and the 
culprit summoned before the awful presence of the Judge 
was (but oh ! how changed from his former self!) the stone- 
dresser Eulogius. 

3. Daniel, likewise, to his infinite sorrow and dismay, was 
called to appear by the side of him for whose good conduct 
he had pledged himself as security, in his inconsiderate zeal to 
promote the welfare of the poor. Oh ! what a dark catalogue 
of sins was brought forward against the unfortunate culprit. 
He had used the gold, by miracle put within his reach, to 
purchase the servants of the aged Emperor Justin, and gain 
access to his favor. 

4. He had been made, by means of bribery and corruption, 
the chief of a great army ; and he had outstripped all the 
soldiery in excesses of every kind, in the same proportion as 
he rose above them in power. He had robbed the churches 
and pillaged the cloisters, and finally had joined one Pompey, 
and one Hypatius, in a conspiracy to take the life of 
the Emperor Justinian, who had succeeded Justin on the 
throne. 

5. Daniel was not able to see or hear more, but weeping 
bitterly, he fell prostrate on his face in the presence of God, 



262 THE THIED READER. 

and begged him to bring Eulogius back to his former con- 
dition, and to release him from a pledge that had proved so 
injurious for both parties concerned. 

6. The angel bore to the foot of the throne the prayer of 
the aged servant of God, whose heart was filled with grief 
and bitter remorse, and the request it contained was again 
mercifully granted. The conspiracy in which Eulogius was 
implicated came to be discovered, his accomplices were brought 
to justice, and he narrowly escaped with his life. 

1. He did penance for his sins, returned to his former 
obscurity, worked again at his craft as a stone-dresser, and 
in time resumed the practice of alms-giving, which he had 
changed in an evil hour for deeds of rapine and plunder. Thus 
the good angel guardian of Daniel the Anchoret succeeded at 
length in convincing him that avarice but too often hardens 
the heart of wealth, thus disturbing the order of God's provi- 
dence on earth, and that the poor are not unfrequently the 
best friends of the poor. 



76. Childhood's Years. 

IN yonder cot, along whose mouldering walls, 
In many a fold, the mantling woodbine falls, 
The village matron kept her little school. 
Gentle of heart, yet knowing well to rule ; 
Staid was the dame, and modest was her mien ; 
Her garb was coarse, yet whole, and nicely clean : 
Her neatly-border'd cap, as lily fair. 
Beneath her chin was pinn'd with decent care ; 
And pendant ruffles, of the whitest lawn. 
Of ancient make, her elbows did adorn. 
Faint with old age, and dim were grown her eyes, 
A pair of spectacles their want suppHes ; 
These does she guard secure, in leathern case, 
From thoughtless wights, in some unweeted place. 



childhood's years. 263 

2. Here first I enter'd, though with toil and pain, 
The low-arch'd vestibule of learning's fame : 
Enter'd with pain, yet soon I found the way, 
Though sometimes toilsome, many a sweet display. 
Much did I grieve, on that ill-fated morn, 
When I was first to school reluctant borne ; 
Severe I thought the dame, though oft she tried 
To soothe my swelling spirits when I sigh'd ; 
And oft, when harshly she reproved, I wept, 
To my lone corner broken-hearted crept. 
And thought of tender home, where anger never kept. 




But soon inured to alphabetic toils, 
Alert I met the dame with jocund smiles ; 
First at the form, my task forever true, 
A little favorite rapidly I grew : 
And oft she stroked my head with fond delight, 
Held me a pattern to the dunce's sight ; 
And as she gave my diligence its praise, 
Talk'd of the honors of my future days. 

Oh, had the venerable matron thought 
Of all the ills by talent often brought ; 
Could she have seen me when revolving years 



264 THE THIRD READER. 

Had brought me deeper in the vale of tears, 
Then had she wept, and wish'd my wayward fate 
Had been a lowlier, an unletter'd state ; 
Wish'd that, remote from worldly woes and strife, 
Unknown, miheard, I might have pass'd through life. 

5. Where in the busy scene, by peace unblest, 
Shall the poor wanderer find a place of rest ? 
A lonely mariner on the stormy main, 
"Without a hope, the calms of peace to gain ; 
Long toss'd by tempests o'er the world's wide shore, 
When shall his spirit rest, to toil no more ? 

Not till the light foam of the sea shall lave 
The sandy surface of his unwept grave. 
Childhood, to thee I turn from life's alarms, 
Serenest season of perpetual calms, — 
Turn with delight, and bid the passions cease. 
And joy to think with thee I tasted peace. 
Sweet reign of innocence, when no crime defiles, 
But each new object brings attendant smiles ; 
When future evils never haunt the sight, 
But all is pregnant with unmixt delight ; 
To thee I turn, from riot and from noise, — 
Turn to partake of more congenial joys. 

6. 'Neath yonder elm, that stands upon the moor. 
When the clock spoke the hour of labor o'er, 

What clamorous throngs, what happy groups were seen, 

In various postures scatt'ring o'er the green ! 

Some shoot the marble, others join the chase 

Of self-made stag, or run the emulous race ; 

While others, seated on the dappled grass. 

With doleful tales the light-wing'd minutes pass. 

Well I remember how, with gesture starch'd, 

A band of soldiers, oft with pride we march'd ; 

For banners, to a tall ash we did bind 

Our kerchiefs, flappiag to the whistling wind ; 

And for our warlike arms we sought the mead, 



BREAKFAST-TABLE SCIENCE. 265 

And guns and spears we made of brittle reed ; 
Then, in uncouth array, our feats to crown, 
We storm'd some ruin'd pig-sty for a town. 

7. Pleased with our gay disports, the dame was wont 
To set her wheel before the cottage front 
And o'er her spectacles would often peer, 
To view our gambols, and our boyish gear. 
Still as she look'd, her wheel kept turning round, 
With its beloved monotony of sound. 
When tired with play, we'd set us by her side 
(For out of school she never knew to chide), 
And wonder at her skill — well known to fame — 
For who could match in spinning with the dame ? 
Her sheets, her linen, which she show'd with pride 
To strangers, still her thriftness testified ; 
Though we poor wights did wonder much, in troth, 
How 'twas her spinning manufactured cloth 



77. Breakfast-Table Science. 

WHAT is an object lesson?" said Lucy to her mother, 
one day after breakfast. " I have been reading about 
one in a book ; and I do not know exactly what it means." 

"An object lesson," said her mother, "is a lesson which 
teaches the properties, or qualities, of objects. An object is 
any thing which you can see, or feel, or taste. A tree is an 
object ; so is a chair ; so is a slice of bread. 

2. "A lesson about a tree tells you of the properties which 
distinguish a tree from other things ; of its root, its trunk, its 
branches, its leaves, its fruit, its bark ; of the way it grows, 
and the uses made of its wood. Object lessons teach us to 
use our senses ; to observe, and compare, and reflect." 

" I should like to have some object lessons ; will you be so 
good as to give me some ? " 

3. " I will, my dear daught^, on one condition ; and that 

12 



266 THE THIRD READER. 

is, that you give me your careful attention. You must listen 
to me witli your ears, and give heed to me with your mind," 

" I will do so, my dear mother," said Lucy, " and be much 
obliged to you besides. What object will you teach me 
about?" 

4. "Here is the breakfast-table," said her mother, "with 
the remains of the breakfast upon it, with cups and saucers, 
spoons, plates, and knives and forks. Here is substance 
enough for many object lessons. Suppose I give you some 
lessons in the science of the breakfast-table. And, first of 
all, let us see what it is that all these things rest upon and 
are held up by." 

" It is a table." 

5. "Yery good. And the table is made of mahogany. 
Mahogany is the wood of a tree which grows in the West 
Indies, in Central America, and in many parts of South 
America. Men go into the woods and cut down the trees, 
just as lumbermen go into the woods of Maine and cut down 
pine-trees. They are then floated down to the sea-coast, and 
shipped to Europe or this country. 

6. "This is very hard work ; the men who do it are obliged 
to go into woods and swamps, where it is very hot, and often 
unhealthy. 

" Mahogany, as you see, is a beautifnl wood, and takes a 
fine polish. It was introduced into England about the end of 
the seventeenth century.* 

1. "A captain of a West Indian ship brought home some 
logs, which he had put on board his vessel simply as ballast ; 
that is, as weight to make it steady. He gave them to his 
brother, a physician, who was building a house, supposing 
they might be useful to him ; but the carpenters would not 
do any thing with the wood, saying that it was too hard for 
their tools. 

8. "Some" time after, the wife of this physician was in want 
of a candle-box, and she told the cabinet-maker to make it 
out of one of the logs of mahogany which had been thrown 



<* The seventeenth century is the period between 1600 and 1701. 



BREAKFAST-TABLE SCIENCE. 267 

aside. He was unwilling at first, because he thought it 
would spoil his tools ; but he at last consented. When the 
box was made and polished, it far outshone any thing in the 
pliysician's new house ; and people came from far and near to 
look at it. 

9. "A lady of rank had a bureau made from one of the logs ; 
and from this time the use of mahogany was gradually ex- 
tended till it became general. 

"Articles of mahogany furniture were once formed of the 
solid wood, which made them quite expensive ; but that has 
been obviated by a modern invention. 

10. "A log of mahogany is now cut into very thin pieces, 
called veneers, by sharp saws ; and these veneers are nicely 
glued upon pine, so that we can have now what looks like a 
mahogany table, though it is really made of pine, with a 
covering of mahogany outside. Such a table is much cheaper 
than if it were all mahogany. Then next comes the table- 
cloth. This is made of linen. Linen is produced from a plant 
called flax. Have you ever seen flax growing ? " 

11. "Yes, father showed me some last summer growing in 
a field on grandfather's farm. It had a green stalk, with a 
pretty blue flower. When father showed it to me, he repeated 
a piece of poetry about a little girl that was lost in a ship- 
wreck, and it said, 'Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax.' 
Father told me that this meant that her eyes were as blue as 
those flowers.'' 

12. "I am very glad, my dear, that you remember so well 
what your father tells you. After the flowers are dead, the 
plants are pulled up. The seeds are then beaten out ; the 
stalks are soaked in water, and dried, and combed, and 
bleached, until they become a bundle of fibres, like very fine 
hair. These are spun into threads, and the threads are woven 
into cloth. 

13. "You will see that the surface of the table-cloth is not 
uniform, or all alike, but that it has patterns, or figures, 
wrought into it. This is all done by very curious and in- 
genious machinery. 

"Flax is not much raised in our country; nor are there 



268 THE THIRD EEADEE* 

many manufactories of linen here. They raise it in great 
quantities in England, Ireland, Belgium, and parts of Ger- 
many ; and it is manufactured in Scotland, England, the north 
of Ireland, and Germany. 

14. ''This table-cloth was brought in a ship from Liver- 
pool, in England." 

" You said just now that the flax was bleached. What is 
that?" 

"To bleach is to make white. The natural color of flax is 
a kind of brown, like the brown linen thread I have in my 
work-basket ; and it has to be whitened by art. 

15. " Most linen fabrics are whitened after they are woven. 
It used to be done by spreading the cloth upon the grass, in 
the sun, and frequently wetting it ; but now the cloth is dipped 
into a kind of liquid which takes the color out at once. 

16. "Now we have the table set, and the cloth spread ; we 
will next see what there is on the table. Here are the coffee- 
pot, the teapot, the water-pot, the cream-jug, and the sugar- 
bowl. What do you think these are made of?" 

17. "They are made of silver, I suppose. They look like 
the silver half-dollar father gave me once." 

"Your answer is a natural one, my dear Lucy. Older per- 
sons than you judge of things by their outward appearance. 
These are not made of silver, though they look like it. 

18. " Rich people have them of silver, but ours are made 
of a white metal, commonly called German silver, covered 
over, or plated, with real silver. German silver is made of 
copper, zinc, and nickel ; all of which are metals. Articles of 
this kind are made in great numbers in the city of Birmingham, 
in England. They are also made in our country." 



78. Breakfast-Table SciE-a^cE—continued, 

LET us next go to the cups and saucers, and the plates. 
They are of the same substance, and of a white color ; 
but they may bfe of other colors. Our dinner-plates, you 



BREAKFAST-TABLE SaENCE. 269 

know, are covered all over with blue figures. They are all 
called, in common speech, earthen-ware, or crockery-ware, and 
sometimes China-ware, because much of it comes from China. 

2. "All kinds of crockery-ware are made out of earth or 
clay. The finest sorts, which are sometimes called porcelain, 
are made partly of clay, and partly of flint stones which have 
been burned, pounded, and ground into a powder. 

"This material is mixed with water, and made into a sort 
of paste or dough ; this is shaped or moulded into cups, plates, 
or dishes, and it is done very quickly and neatly by men who 
are accustomed to it. 

3. "They use a wheel to help them shape it. Then it is 
put into an oven and heated, and when it comes out it is 
glazed, and sometimes painted with figures and colored." 

4. "What do you mean by glazed, mother ?" 

" If you look at a cup, or plate, carefully, you will see that 
the surface is not merely smooth, but polished and bright, 
something like glass. This is the effect of the glazing. A 
substance made of lead, called litharge of lead, is put into 
water, and mixed up with ground flints, or granite, so as to 
make a liquid like thick cream ; and into this the articles which 
require glazing are dipped. 

5. "They are then put into an oven and heate-d again. The 
glazing makes them easily washed, and enables them to hold 
any liquid without absorbing it. 

"Earthen-ware and porcelain-ware are made in England, 
France, China, and to some extent in our country. There is a 
place in France where they make plates and cups and saucers 
which have most beautiful paintings upon them of birds, or 
flowers, or places. 

6. "These sell for a great deal of money; and in looking 
at them, it seems impossible to believe that they were made of 
clay and flint stones. 

" The knives are divided into two parts, the blade and the 
handle. The blade is made of steel, which is a preparation of 
iron. Iron is a metal which is dug out of the earth. 

7. "When first found, it is not in the state in which you 
now see it, but it looks like a rough, dark-brown stone. Thin 



270 THE THIRD EEADER. 

is put into a furaace and melted, and the iron is drawn off in 
a liquid form. Iron is the most useful of metals, and it is 
found in nearly all parts of the world. 

8. " Steel is made by putting bars of iron into a close box 
with fine-powdered charcoal, and then heating the whole very 
hot. The vapor of the charcoal acts in a peculiar way upon 
the iron, and makes it harder, more elastic, and less liable to 
rust. Steel, also, when struck, sounds, or rings, louder than 
iron, and it takes a brighter polish. 

9. "The handles of knives are made of ivory, bone, horn, 
or wood. Ours are made of bone. Knives are made in Eng- 
land, Germany, and also in our own country. Sheffield, in 
England, is a place where many are made. 

" Do you see any thing else on the table that is made of 
iron ? " 

10. "No, mother, I do not." 

"There is something else, though yon do not perceive it. 
This waiter is made of iron. It is made of very thin iron, 
called sheet iron, which is first painted, and then varnished. 
A great deal of ware of this kind is made in Birmingham, in 
England. This is a large and rich city, and the people are 
mostly employed in various manufactures of metal. 

11. "They make buttons, buckles, thimbles, pencil-cases, 
steel pens, teapots, trays, cake-baskets, and many other similar 
articles. 

"The spoons are made of silver, — real silver. Silver is a 
metal, which is dug out of the ground. It is one of the pre- 
cious metals, so called ; it comes next in value to gold and 
platinum, which latter is rarely used. 

12. "Money is coined from gold and silver. Silver is used 
for many purposes ; and various beautiful and useful things 
are made from it. It comes mostly from Mexico and South 
America. 

"Having now disposed of the table, its covering, and the 
furnishing of the table, let us proceed to consider what we 
have had to eat. 

13. " Our breakfast has consisted of tea, coffee, sugar, bread, 
butter, milk, boiled eggs, and baked apples. 



BREAKFAST-TABLE SCIENCE. 271 

"Tea is the leaf of a shrub which grows in China and 
Japan, It is from four to six feet high. The leaves are 
gathered twice a year ; in the spring and the autumn. They 
are dried a little in the sun, then laid on plates of hot iron, 
and afterwards rolled on mats with the palm of the hand. 
There are many varieties of tea, but they are divided into two 
great classes, black tea and green tea. 

14. " These do not come from the same kind of plant. 

" The Chinese are very fond of tea, and always have been 
so. It was introduced into Europe about the year 1660 ; and 
it is now very much used, especially in England and America, 
A great many ships come from China which are entirely filled 
with tea. It is packed in wooden chests, which have a lining 
of lead. 

15. " Coffee is the berry of an evergreen shrub which grows 
in Arabia, and the East and West Indies, It is about ten feet 
high, and its berry, when ripe, is red, and not very unlike a 
cherry. At the proper time the fruit is gathered, dried in the 
sun, and the berries extracted by the help of mills. The ber- 
ries are again dried, packed in bags, and sent away in vessels. 
When we want to make coffee, the berries, or grains, are 
roasted, ground, and boiled in water. The finest coffee comes 
from Mocha, in Arabia. 

16. "Tea is made by steeping the leaves in boiling wate^^ 
which uncurls them, and makes them look larger than they 
were when put in. Thus tea is properly an infusion. But 
coffee is a decoction, because it is made by boihng. Now will 
you promise to remember the distinction between these two 
hard words ? " 

1*1. "I will try. Decoction is when you boil any thing, 
and infusion is when you only steep it." 

" Your father drinks coffee for breakfast, and I drink tea ; 
but you drink milk. Tea and coffee both belong to those arti- 
cles of food which are called stimulants. They act upon the 
nerves, and produce a slight exhilaration or excitement. They 
are not good for little boys and girls ; and they should be 
used only in moderation by grown persons. 

18. "When your father comes home at night, tired with 



272 THE THIRD READEK. 

his day's work, a cup of tea refreshes him ; but if he were to 
drink too much, or drink it too strong, it would keep him 
awake, and he would have a headache the next morning. 
Many persons injure themselves by drinking too much strong 
tea and coffee. 

19. " Sugar is the produce of a plant called the sugar-cane, 
which grows in the West Indies, and many other warm coun- 
tries. It is about ten feet high, and about two inches in 
diameter ; it looks a good deal like our Indian corn. When 
ripe, the canes are fnll of a rich, sweet juice. 

20. " They are then cut down, and next crushed in a mill ; 
the liquid that runs out is boiled away, and a little hme-water 
is mixed with it, to help to clarify it, that is, make it clear, 

" When this liquid cools, it settles down in the form of 
brown sugar ; and the liquid that runs off is molasses. Brown 
sugar, which is sometimes called raw sugar, is refined and pu- 
rified, and thus turned into loaf sugar. To do this, it is boiled 
in lime-water, and the heated liquor is cleansed, or purified, 
and then poured into conical moulds ; and when it cools, it 
appears in the form of a loaf of hard white sugar. 

21. " Sugar is made from other substances than the juice 
of the sugar-cane. In France, the juice of the beet-root is 
much used for this purpose. Sugar has also been obtained 
ijjpm grapes, and from liquorice root. In our country, much 
maple-sugar is made by boiling down the juice of a kind of 
maple-tree." 



79. Breakfast-Table Science — concluded. 

YOU will observe that there are two kinds of bread on the 
table ; one is brown and the other is white ; but they are 
both made of wheat. Wheat is the growth of a plant which 
looks something like a very tall blade of grass ; when it is 
ripe, it is cut down, and spread upon the floor of a barn, and 
then beaten with a wooden stick called a flail, which causes 
the wheat to drop out. 



BREAKFAST-TABUE SCIENCE. *219 

2. "It then appears in the form of small, brown grains as 
big as apple-seeds. 

"These grains are carried to a mill and gronnd into flour. 
This is done by having them put between two stones, the low- 
er of which is fixed, while the upper one turns round. The 
brown bread is made of flour in the state it is when it comes 
from the mill. 

3. "The white bread is made of flour which has been passed 
through a very fine sieve, or bolted, as it is sometimes called. 
The outer husk or covering, of the grains of wheat, makes, 
when ground, a substance called bran. In the unbolted flour 
this bran is retained ; in the bolted it is not. Many persons 
who are not strong and well find the brown bread more 
healthy for them. 

4. "In order to make bread, the floui»is mixed with water, 
in which state it is called dough. It has to be kneaded, or 
stirred about, for a considerable time, in order to make the 
water and the flour blend together perfectly. Then yeast is 
put into the dough, which makes it rise, or swell. 

5. "When you cut a slice of bread, you will notice that it 
is porous, or full of little holes. This is owing to the effect 
produced by the yeast. When it is sufficiently risen, it is put 
into an oven and baked. 

6. "Yeast is a liquid, frothy substance, commonly m^e 
from hops, and obtained from brewers who make beer. But 
there are other ways of procuring it, and there are other sub- 
stances that produce the same effect. In what manner the 
yeast acts upon the bread so as to make it rise, I could not 
explain to you without using many hard words, which would 
go into one of your httle ears and out of the other. 

7. "When you are older, and study chemistry, you will un- 
derstand it. Dough which has been mixed with yeast is called 
leaven, a word sometimes used in the Bible. Unleavened bread 
means bread which has not had any yeast, or leaven, put into it. 
At times, the Jews were required to eat only unleavened bread." 

8. "But mother, is not bread sometimes made of other 
things than wheat ? I have eaten at grandfather's a kind of 
bread which is called rye and Indian bread." 

21* 



274 THE THIRD READER. 

"You are right, my dear. Bread is Bometimes made of 
rye, of barley, of oats, and of Indian corn. The bread of 
which you speak is made of rye flonr and Indian meal. Rye 
is a grain of the same kind as wheat. 

9. *' Indian corn is the fruit of a plant which we call by the 
same name, and is also termed maize. It grows in the form 
of yellow grains, much larger than those of wheat, which are 
set round what is called the cob. Rye and Indian bread is 
very common among New England farmers. 

10. "I have now told you about every thing we have had 
to eat for our breakfast, except the milk and cream, the but- 
ter, the baked apples, and the eggs. Milk, as you know, is 
drawn from the cow ; you have often seen them milk the cows 
at your grandfather's. 

"Butter is made of cream, and cream comes from milk. 
Milk, when first drawn from the cow, is composed of two 
parts, one of which is watery and sweet, and the other oily. 
After it has been allowed to stand some time, the cream rises 
to the top. 

11. ''This is the oily part of the milk, and it rises because it 
is lighter than the rest. The cream is taken off, or skimmed 
from the top, and put into a long, round-shaped box, called a 
churn. Here it is shaken and stirred by a handle, and in a 
sj^rt time the watery particles of the cream separate from 
those which are oily. The watery part is called buttermilk, 
and is commonly given to the pigs ; the oily part is but- 
ter, and is given to good little boys and good little girls, 
like you. 

12. "The apple is a fruit which grows upon a tree, and is 
gathered in the autumn. A collection of apple-trees is called 
an orchard. You have sometimes been into your grandfather's 
orchard and helped to pick up apples. There are many kinds 
of apples ; some are sweet and some are sour. 

13. "Sweet apples are commonly used for baking, and sour 
ones for making pies The apple is a very valuable fruit, and 
many persons in our country support themselves by raising and 
selhng apples. 

"Eggs are produced oi* laid, by hens. You know how fond 



BBEAKFAST-TABLE SCIENCE. 275 

you are of going into your grandfather's barn, and looking for 
eggs. All kinds of birds lay eggs, and they are of various 
sizes. 

14. "An ostrich's egg is as big as your head, and a hum- 
ming-bird's egg is no bigger than a pea. 

" An egg is a wonderful thing, though it is so common. It 
contains a germ, or principle, of life ; that is, something which 
may hereafter become ahve. When you break open the egg 
of a hen, you find a yellow, thick liquid in the middle, called 
the yolk, and around it a white, sticky liquor, which is called 
the white. 

15. "There is nothing here which looks like bones, or 
feathers, or flesh. But if it be left in the nest, and the hen 
sit upon it a number of days, the warmth of her body hatches 
it, and turns it into a chicken, which breaks the shell, and 
runs about, and is a living creature. 

" This is the same with all kinds of fowls and birds. That 
tall tufkey at your grandfather's, which so frightened you 
when you were a little girl, was once an egg ; and so was that 
magnificent eagle that I showed you last summer at the White 
Mountains. 

16. "This property of the egg is one of God's wonderful 
works. We sometime call it a mystery ; that is, it is some- 
thing that we cannot understand. We do not know how it 
is that the warmth of a hen's body converts an egg into a 
chicken, but we know that such is the fact. 

" And now, my dear Lucy, look round the table and see if 
there be any objects on it about which I have not told you." 

17. "Yes, mother, there are the mats and the salt-cellars." 
" Very true ; and I am glad that you make such good use 

of your eyes. The mats are made of the leaves of the palm- 
tree. These are dried, cut into very narrow strips, and woven 
or plaited. Your brother Willy in the summer wears a straw 
hat which is made of the same material. The palm-tree grows 
in Asia and Africa. 

18. " The salt cellars are made of glass. Glass is made of 
fine sand and soda, or potash. Potash is a substance obtained 
from the ashes of plants and vegetables. The materials for 



276 THE THmD BEADER, 

forming glass are put into large pots, and melted, until it be- 
comes a red hot liquid substance. Then the workman dips 
the end of a long iron tube into it, and takes up a bit, which 
he first rolls on a polished iron plate, to make it smooth on 
the outside. Then he blows into the other end of the iron 
tube, and the hot glass swells and expands, and it is shaped 
into the required form. In this way bottles and decanters 
are made. 

19. "Salt-cellars and other things of the kind are shaped 
in a mould. The finer and costlier articles of glass are cut. 
This is done by grinding the surface with small wheels of stone, 
metal, or wood. The glass is held up to the wheel. A small 
stream of water is kept continually running on the glass, to 
prevent its getting too hot. Friction, or the rubbing of one 
thing against another, produces heat. 

" The process of making glass is very curious, and the arti- 
cles made are very beautiful. One of these days you shall go 
with me to a glass manufactory. 

20. " Salt is formed from sea-water, which has, as you know, 
a salt taste. It is pumped into shallow pans, or reservoirs, 
and evaporated by the heat of the sun. Water is said to be 
evaporated when it is dried up, or taken away, by the air. 
The water in time passes off, and leaves the salt at the bot- 
tom. This is afterwards boiled, skimmed, purified, and dried. 

21. "In many parts of our country there are springs of salt- 
water, a great way off from the sea. Salt is made from the 
water of these springs in the same way as from that of the 
sea. Salt is also dug out of the earth, in a solid form, in 
many parts of the world. This is called rock salt. 

" Thus, my dear Lucy, I have told you all about the break- 
fast-table, and the various objects upon it. I hope you will 
remember it." 

22. "I will try to remember it, mother." 

" And now I want to make one or two remarks upon what 
we have been talking about. I wish you to form the habit of 
reflecting as well as of observing ; that is, I want you to think 
about what you see, and hear, and read- You will notice that 
the articles of which we have spoken have come froii^ all parts 



BREAKFAST-TABLE SCIENCE. 277 

of the world. The tea is from China, the coffee from Java, 
the sugar from the West Indies, the mahogany from Hondu- 
ras, the table-cloth from Europe. 

23. "And then a great number of persons have helped to 
prepare our breakfast, and our breakfast-table furnitm-e, for 
ns. The iron of which the knives are made, for instance, was 
first dug out of the earth by miners ; then it was melted in a 
furnace by firemen ; then it was converted into steel by another 
set of workmen ; then the steel was made into blades, and fit- 
ted into the handles by cutlers. 

24. "And so of the table-cloth. First, we have the farm- 
er to raise the flax, the workmen to prepare it to be manu- 
factured, the men and the machines to spin and weave it, and 
the ship and the sailors to bring it to this country. Indeed, 
if all the people who have directly and indirectly helped to get 
our breakfast for us were brought together, they would form 
a considerable village. 

25. " This is one of the advantages of living in what is 
called a state of civilization ; that is, a state in which we 
have laws, and books, and trades, and arts, and sciences, agri- 
culture, commerce, and manufactures. In such a state each 
works for all, and all works for each. Had you been a little 
Indian girl, your breakfast would have been a bit of broiled 
fish, a handful of parched corn, and some water out of a 
gourd." 

26. "Mother, I am very glad I am not a little Indian 
gu-l." 

"That is just what I was coming to, my dear child. I 
want you to be not only glad, but grateful to God, who has 
caused you to be born in a situation where you enjoy so many 
blessings ; where you can have convenient and comfortable 
clothing, and abundance of healthy food, and schools to go to, 
and books to read." 

27. " And a dear good mother, who tells me every thing I 
want to know," said Lucy. 

"And now it is time," said her mother, "to get ready to 
go to school. I hope I have not filled your little head so fall 
that there will be no room for your lessons." 



278 



THE THIKD EEADEB. 




80. TiEED OF Play. 



1. miRED of play I Tired of play ! 

J- What hast thou done this livelong day I 
The birds are silent, and so is the bee ; 
The sun is creeping up steeple and tree ; 
The doves have flown to the sheltering eaves, 
And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves ; 
Twilight gathers, the day is done — 
How hast thou spent it — restless one I 

2. Playing ? But what hast thou done beside 
To tell thy mother at eventide ? 

What promise of morn is left unbroken ? 
What kind word to thy playmate spoken? 
Whom hast thou pitied, and whom forgiven? 
How with thy fauits has duty striven ? 
What hast thou learn'd by field and hill, 
By greenwood path, and by singing rill ? 



MELROSE ABBEY* 279 

3. There will come an eve to a longer day, 
That will find thee tired — but not of play I 
And thou wilt lean, as thou leanest now, 
With drooping limbs and aching brow, 
And wish the shadows would faster creep, 
And long to go to thy quiet sleep. 

4. Well were it then if thine aching brow 
Were as free from sin and shame as now I 
Well for thee if thy lip could tell 

A tale like this, of a day spent well. 

6. If thine open hand hath relieved distress — 
If thy pity hath sprung to wretchedness — 
If thou hast forgiven the sore ofifence, 
And humbled thy heart with penitence— » 
If Nature's voices have spoken to thee 
With her holy meanings eloquently, — 

6. If every creature hath won thy love, 

From the creeping worm to the brooding dove — 

If never a sad, low-spoken word 

Hath plead with thy human heart unheard — 

Then, when the night steals on, as now, 

It will bring relief to thy aching brow, 

And, with joy and peace at the thought of rest, 

Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother's breast. 



81. Meleose Abbey. 

ONE of the most interesting remams of sacred art any- 
where to be found, is the ruined abbey of Melrose, in 
Scotland. There are in that country the remains of four 
splendid abbeys, of which that of Melrose is perhaps the 
most beautiful. It is on many accounts most attractive to 
persons of cultivated taste. To the Christian, too, it is 
interesting as a glorious memento of the faith and piety of 
by-gone ages. 

2. "Melrose Abbey,'^ says a modern writer, "is indeed a 
vast and beautiful ruin. No person can help admiring it, 



280 



THE THIRD EEADEE. 



whether he survey it narrowly, or contemplate it at some 
distance ; whether he examine it in detail, or in one compre- 
hensive view. It is not one of those rude edifices which, 
when seen from afar, when contrasted with some neighboring 
object, and magnified or embellished with imagined perfections, 
-strike the eye with admiration of their vastness and beauty, 
but from the coarseness of their materials, or the ignorance 
of those who constructed them, sink into deformity when 
subjected to a minute and critical inspection. 




3. It is impossible to view it from any quarter, or in any 
direction, without perceiving it to be a most admirable speci- 
men of the architecture of former times, and a striking monu- 
ment of the taste of the builder, as well as of the piety of its 
founder. It pleases alike by the magnificence of its plan and 
the exquisite fineness of its workmanship, by its local situation 
and the interesting associations to which it gives rise. 

4. He who can view the abbey of Melrose without being 
highly gratified, has neither understanding that is cultivated, 
nor feelings that one might envy. He is ruder than the ground 
on which he treads, he is more insensible than the structure 
whose beauties he cannot see. 



CURING THE BLIND. 



281 




82; Curing the Blind. 



A POOR blind man, having learned that Jesus was passing 
along, came forth to meet him, and cried with all his 
strength: "Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me !" The 
disciples would have driven him away ; but he only cried the 
louder: "Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me!" And 
Jesus, having him brought near, asked him : "What wilt thou 
that I do for thee?" 

2. "Lord, that I may see I" replied the blind man. 
"Receive thy sight," said Jesus to him, "thy faith hath 

made thee whole." 

And immediately the blind man opened his eyes and saw, 
and he followed Jesus, giving thanks to God. And the mul- 
titude who witnessed this prodigy, also joined in his thanks- 
giving. 

3. But this was not the only blind man to whom Jesns 
gave sight. In Jerusalem he met one who had been blind 
from his birth. His disciples, seeing him, asked : " Master, 



282 THE THIRD READER. 

who hath sinned, this man or his parents, that he should be 
born blind ? " 

As though the infirmities wherewith some are born were 
always chastisements from God, whereas they are often in- 
tended as special graces in the merciful designs of Provi- 
dence. 

4t. The Saviour answered: "Neither hath this man sinned, 
nor his parents ;" he is born blind in order "that the works 
of God may be made manifest in him." 

He then spat upon the ground, made clay of the spittle, 
and with it rubbed the eyes of the bUnd man, saying : "Go 
wash in the pool of Siloe." 

5. This was a public fountain of Jerusalem. The man went 
as directed, washed himself, and recovered his sight. And his 
friends and acquaintances asked each other, "Is it, indeed, the 
same man whom we have seen sitting here begging ? " 

"Yes," he replied, "I am he." 

6. And they asked him how his eyes had been opened. 
And he told them : "That man who is called Jesus, made clay 
with his spittle, and anointed my eyes, and said to me : ' Go 
to the pool of Siloe and wash.' I went, I washed, and I see." 

And they asked him, "Where is he ?" And he rephed, "I 
know not." 

The man was immediately brought to the Pharisees, and to 
them he related how Jesus had restored his sight. 

1. Now, it was on the Sabbath, the day of rest, that Jesus 
had cured him • and the Pharisees were embarrassed. Some 
said : "This man is not of God, who keepeth not the Sab- 
bath." But others said: "How can a man that is a sinner 
do such miracles?" And then they asked the man that had 
been blind : "What say est thou of this man ?" And he said : 
" He is a prophet, a man sent froin God." 

8. But the Pharisees, still obstinate in their incredulity, 
refused to believe that he had been blind, or cured, and they 
questioned his family on the subject. Behold, children, how 
the most dazzling mu'acles of the Saviour were strictly exam- 
ined, so that their authenticity was clearly established. 

9, "Is this your son, whom some say was born blind?" 



THE COUNTRY FELLOWS AND THE ASS. 283 

said tlie Pharisees to the parents of him who had been blind. 
** How, then, doth he now see ? " 

"Yes," said they, "he is our son. He was bom blind, and 
he now sees. Ask himself how he was cured." They were, 
themselves, afraid to tell the truth. So the Pharisees went 
again and interrogated the man who had been cured. 

10. " Give glory to God," said they, " we know that this 
man is a sinner." 

" If he be a sinner," he replied, " I know not. One thing I 
know, that, whereas I was blind, I now see. And we know 
that God doth not hear sinners. From the beginning of the 
world it hath not been heard that any man hath opened the 
eyes of one born blind. Unless this man were of God, he 
could not do the things that he hath done." 

11. The Pharisees, being angry with the man, exclaimed: 
"Wretch, thou wast wholly born in sin, and dost thou teach 
us ? " And they drove him from their presence. Jesus, having 
heard of this, came to the man, and said ; "Dost thou believe 
in the Son of God ? " 

And he answered ; "Who is he, Lord, that I may believe 
in him ? " 

And Jesus said : " It is he who talketh with thee." Hear- 
ing this, the man fell down and adored him. 



83. The Country Fellows and the Ass. 

1. A COUNTRY fellow and his son, they teU 
-Li. In modern fables, had an ass to sell : 
For this intent they turn'd it out to play, 
And fed so well, that by the destined day. 
They brought the creature into sleek repair, 
And drove it gently to a neighboring fair 

2. As they were jogging on, a rural class 

Was heard to say, "Look ! look there, at that ass 1 



284 THE THIRD READER. 

And those two blockheads trudging on each side, 
That have not, either of 'em, sense to ride ; 
Asses all three ! " And thus the country folks 
On man and boy began to cut their jokes. 

3. Th' old fellow minded nothing that they said, 
But every word stuck in the young one's head ; 
And thus began their comment thereupon : 
"Ne'er heed ^em, lad." "Nay, father, do get on." 
"Not I, indeed" "Why then let me, I pray." 
"Well do ; and see what prating tongues will say." 

4. The boy was mounted ; and they had not got 
Much further on, before another knot, 

Just as the ass was passing by, pad, pad, 
Cried, " Oh I that lazy booby of a lad I 
How unconcernedly the gaping brute 
Lets the poor aged fellow walk afoot." 

5. Down came the son on hearing this account, 

And begg'd, and pray'd, and made his father mount : 

Till a third party on a further stretch, 

" See ! see ! " exclaimed, " that old hard-hearted wretch I 

How hke a justice there he sits, or squire ; 

While the poor lad keeps wading through the mire." 

6. "Stop," cried the lad, still vex'd in deeper mind, 
"Stop, father, stop ; let me get on behind." 

This done, they thought they certainly should please. 
Escape reproaches, and be both at ease ; 
For having tried each practicable way. 
What could be left for jokers now to say ? 

1. Still disappointed, by succeeding tone, 

" Hark ye, you fellows I Is that ass your own ? 
Get off, for shame ! or one of you at least ! 
You both deserve to carry the poor beast ! 
Ready to drop down dead upon the road, 
With such a huge unconscionable load." 



HE FIRST CRUSADE. 285 

8. On this they both dismounted ; and, some say, 
Contrived to carry, like a truss of hay, 

The ass between 'em ; prints, they add, are seen 
With man and lad, and slinging ass between ; 
Others omit that fancy in the print, 
As overstraining an ingenious hint. 

9. The copy that we follow, says. The man 
Rubb'd down the ass, and took to his first plan, 
Walk'd to the fair, and sold him, got his price. 
And gave his son this pertinent advice : 

" Let talkers talk ; stick thou to what is best ; 
To think of pleasing all — is all a jest." 




84. The First Crusade. 

PETER the Hermit, the preacher of the first crusade, was 
descended from a noble family of Picardy. Having made 
a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, one day, while prostrated 
before the holy sepulchre, he believed that he heard the 
voice of Christ, which said to him, — " Peter, arise ! hasten 
to proclaim the sufferings of my people ; it is time that my 



286 THE THIKD BEADER. 

servants should receive help, and that the holy places should 
be delivered." 

2. Full of the spirit of these words, which sounded un- 
ceasingly in his ears, and charged with letters from the 
patriarch, he quitted Palestine, crossed the seas, landed on 
the coast of Italy, and hastened to cast himself at the feet 
of the pope. The chair of St. Peter was then occupied by 
Urban II., who had been the disciple and confidant of both 
Gregory and Victor, Urban embraced with ardor a project 
which had been entertained by his predecessors ; he received 
Peter as a prophet, applauded his design, and bade him go 
forth and announce the approaching deliverance of Jerusalem. 

Peter the Hermit and Kerbogha. 

3. The leaders of the Christian army who • had prepared 
the enthusiasm of the soldiers, now employed themselves in 
taking advantage of it. They sent deputies to the general of 
the Saracens, to offer him either a single combat or a general 
battle. Peter the Hermit, who had evinced more enthusiasm 
than any other person, was chosen for this embassy. 

4. Although received with contempt in the camp of the 
infidels, he delivered himself no less haughtily or boldly. 
"The princes assembled in Antioch," said Peter, addressing 
the Saracen leaders, " have sent me to demand justice of you. 
These provinces, stained with the blood of martyrs, have 
belonged to Christian nations, and as all Christian people are 
brothers, we are come into Asia to avenge the injuries of 
those who have been persecuted, and to defend the heritage 
of Christ and his disciples. 

5. . " Heaven has allowed the cities of Syria to fall for a time 
into the power of infidels, in order to chastise the ofiences of 
his people ; but learn that the vengeance of the Most High is 
appeased ; learn that the tears and penitence of the Christians 
have turned aside the sword of divine justice, and that the 
God of armies has arisen to fight on our side. Nevertheless 
we still consent to speak of peace. 

6. " I conjure you, in the name of the all-powerful God, to 



PETEB THE HERMIT AND KERBOGHA. '287 

abandon the territory of Antioch and return to your own 
country. The Christians promise you, by my voice, not to 
molest you in your retreat. We will even put up prayers for 
you that the true God may touch your hearts, .and permit 
you to see the truth of our faith. If Heaven designs to listen 
to us, how delightful it will be to us to give you the name of 
brethren, and to conclude with you a lasting peace I 

T. "But if you are not willing to accept either the blessings 
of peace or the benefits of the Christian religion, let the fate 
of battle at length decide the justice of our cause. As the 
Christians will not be taken by surprise, and as they are not 
accustomed to steal victories, they offer you the choice of 
combat." 

8. When finishing his discourse, Peter fixed his eyes upon 
the leader of the Saracens, and said, '* Choose from among 
the bravest of thy army, and let them do battle with an equal 
number of the Crusaders ; fight thyself with one of our Chris- 
tian princes ; or give the signal for a general battle. What- 
ever may be thy choice, thou shalt soon learn what thy 
enemies are, and thou shalt know what the great God is 
whom we serve I 

9. Kerbogha, who knew the situation of the Christians, and 
who was not aware of the kind of succor they had received 
in their distress, was much surprised at such language. He 
remained for some time mute with astonishment and rage, 
but at length said, " Return to them who sent you, and tell 
them it is the part of the conquered to receive conditions, 
and not to dictate them. Miserable vagabonds, extenuated 
men, phantoms may terrify women ; but the warriors of Asia 
are not intimidated by vain words. 

10. "The Christians shall soon learn that the land we. tread 
upon belongs to us. Nevertheless, I am willing to entertain 
some pity for them, and if they will acknowledge Mohammed, I 
may forget that this city, a prey to famine, is already in my 
power ; I may leave it in their hands, and give them arms, 
clothes, bread, women, in short, all that they have not ; for 
the Koran bids us pardon all who submit to its laws. 

11. "Bid thy companions hasten, and on this very day take 



288 THE THIRD READER. 

advantage of my clemency ; tomorrow they shall only leave 
Aiitioch by the sword. They will then see if their crucified 
God, who could not save himself from the cross, can save 
them from the fate which is prepared for them." 
* 12. This speech was loudly applauded by the Saracens, 
whose fanaticism it rekindled. Peter wished to reply, but the 
Sultan of Mossoul, placing his hand upon his sword, com- 
manded that these miserable mendicants, who united blindness 
with insolence, should be driven away. 

13. The Christian deputies retired in haste, and were in 
danger of losing their lives several times while passing through 
the army of the infidels. Peter rendered an account of his 
mission to the assembled princes and barons ; and all im- 
mediately prepared for battle. The heralds-at-arms proceeded 
through the different quarters of the city, and battle was 
promised for the next day to the impatient valor of the 
Crusaders. 



85. The Battle of Antioch. 

ALL at once the Saracens commenced the attack by dis- 
charging a cloud of arrows and then rushing on the 
Crusaders, uttering barbarous cries. In spite of their im- 
petuous shcck, their right wing was soon repulsed and pene- 
trated by the Christians. 

2. Godfrey met with greater resistance in their left wing ; 
he succeeded, however, in breaking it, and carrying disorder 
among their ranks. At the moment that the troops of 
Kerbogha began to give way, the Sultan of Nice, who had 
made the tour of the mountain and returned along the banks 
of the Orontes, fell with impetuosity upon the rear of the 
Christian army, and threatened destruction to the body of 
reserve commanded by Bohemond. 

3. The Crusaders, who fought on foot, could not resist the 
first charge of the Saracen cavalry. Hugh the Great, warned 
of the danger of Bohemond, abandoned the pursuit of the 
fugitives, and hastened to the succor of the body of reserve. 



THE BATTLE OF ANTIOCH. 289 

Then the battle was renewed with redoubled fury. Kilidj 
Arslan, who had to avenge the shame of several defeats, as 
well as the loss of his states, fought like a lion at the head of 
his troops. A squadron of three thousand Saracen horse, 
clothed in steel and armed with clubs, carried disorder and 
terror through the ranks of the Christians. 

4. The standard of the Count de Yermandois was carried 
away, and retaken, covered with the blood of Crusaders and 
infidels. Godfrey and Tancred, who flew to the assistance of 
Hugh and Bohemond, signalized their strength and valor by 

-the death of a great many Mussulmans. 

5. The Sultan of Nice, whom no reverse could overcome, 
firmly withstood the shock of the Christians. In the heat of 
the combat, he ordered lighted flax to be thrown among the 
low bushes and dried grass which covered the plain. Im- 
mediately a blaze arose which enveloped the Christians in 
masses of flame and smoke. Their ranks were for a moment 
broken ; they could no longer either see or hear their leaders. 
The Sultan of Nice was about to gather the fruits of his 
stratagem, and victory was on the point of escaping from the 
hands of the Crusaders. 

6. At this moment, say the historians, a squadron was 
seen to descend from the summit of the mountains, preceded 
by three horsemen clothed in white and covered with shining 
armor. "Behold!" cried Bishop Adhemar, "the heavenly 
succor which was promised to you. Heaven declares for the 
Christians ; the holy martyrs, George, Demetrius, and The- 
odore, come to fight for you." Immediately all eyes were 
turned towards the celestial legion. A new ardor inspired 
the Christians, who were pursuaded that God himself was 
coming to their aid, and the war-cry ^^ It is the will of God!" 
was heard as at the beginning of the battle. 

7. The women and children who had remained in Antioch, 
and were collected on the walls, animated the courage of the 
Crusaders by their cries and acclamations, while the priests 
continued to raise their hands towards heaven, and returned 
thanks to God by songs of praise and thanksgiving for the 
succor he had sent to the Chrtstfang. 

13 



290 THE THIED, KEADER. 

8. Of the Crusaders themselves each man became a hero, 
and nothing could stand before then' impetuous charge. In a 
moment the ranks of the Saracens were everywhere broken, 
and they only fought in confusion and disorder. They en- 
deavored to rally on the other side of a torrent and upon an 
elevated point, whence their trumpets and clarions resounded ; 
but the Count de Yermandois attacked them in this last post, 
and completely routed them. They had now no safety but in 
flight, and the banks of the Orontes, the woods, the plains, 
the mountains were covered with the fugitives, who abandoned 
both their arms and their baggage. 

9. Kerbogha, who had been so certain of victory as to 
have announced the defeat of the Christians to the Caliph of 
Bagdad and the Sultan of Persia, fled towards the Euphrates, 
escorted by a small body of his most faithful soldiers. Several 
of the emirs had taken to flight before the end of the battle. 

10. Tancred and some others, mounted on the horses of the 
conquered enemy, pursued till nightfall the Sultans of Aleppo 
and Damascus, the Emir of Jerusalem, and the scattered 
wreck of the Saracen army. The conquerors set fire to the 
intrenchments behind which the enemy's infantry had sought 
refuge, and a vast number of Mussulmans perished in the flames. 

11. According to the account of several contemporary his- 
torians, the infidels left a hundred thousand dead on the field 
of battle. Four thousand Crusaders lost their lives on this 
glorious day, and were placed among the ranks of the martyrs. 

12. The Christians found abundance beneath the tents of 
their enemies ; fifteen thousand camels and a great number of 
horses fell into their hands. As they passed the night in the 
camp of the Saracens, they had leisure to admire the luxury 
of the Orientals, and they examined with the greatest surprise 
the tent of the King of Mossoul, resplendent with gold and 
precious stones, which, divided into long streets flanked by 
high towers, resembled a fortified city. They employed several 
days in carrying the spoils into Antioch. The booty was 
immense, and every Crusader, according to the remark off 
Albert d'Aix, found himself much richer than he was when he 
quitted Europe. 



THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER. 



291 




86. The Village Schoolmaster. 

BESIDE yon straggling fence that skirts the way 
With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay — 
There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, 
The village master taught his little school ; 
A man severe he was, and stern to view, 
I knew him well, and every truant knew ; 
Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace 
The day's disasters in his morning face ; 
Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee 
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 
Full well the busy whisper, circling round, 
Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd — 
Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, 
The love he bore to learning was in fault. 
The village all declared how much he knew ; 
'Twas certain he eould write and cipher too ; 
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage. 
And even the story ran that he could guage. 
In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill. 
For even though vanquish'd, he could argne still ; 
While words of learned length, and thund'ring sound 
Amazed the gaping rustics ranged around — 
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew 
Th^t one small head couM carry all he kn^w. 



m 



292 THE THIRD READER. 



87. The Eector of Guignen and his Vicar. 

THE rector of Guignen, a venerable old man, and his curate, 
had been a short time before put to death in the citj of 
Rennes, when I went to see my sister, Madame Junsions, who 
lived at a short distance from Guignen ; she related to me 
the following incidents of the capture of these two victims : 

2. They had been warned of the search that was being made 
for them, and attempted to escape through the fields, when they 
were perceived by those in pursuit of them. They were, how- 
ever, a considerable distance ahead, and the curate, who was 
much the youngest and more active, might easily have escaped. 

3. They gained, however, upon the old priest, firing their 
guns at him as they pursued him. The curate had crossed a 
brook and ascended the opposite bank, and was out of the 
reach of his pursuers, when looking back he perceived that the 
aged rector was unable to get up the steep ascent. His pur- 
suers were shouting with joy at his unavailing efi'orts. 

4. The young man immediately turned back, to the surprise 
of the soldiers, who could not but admire his heroic charity, 
and endeavored to assist the goo(| old parish priest. He de- 
scended the bank, recrossed the brook, and covering him with 
his body, strove to aid him across. But he was unable to do 
so before the soldiers came up and took them both prisoners, 
to be led, as they well knew, to certain death. 

5. The soldiers stopped at my sister's house, with their 
prisoners, on their way to the city. The leader of the party, 
the infamous and dreaded D ^n, who had already distin- 
guished himself by many similar captures, and was a man of 
frightful aspect and most sanguinary disposition, told my sister 
the circumstances which I have related above, with some 
expressions of a sort of admiration and pity, the more striking 
from the mouth of such a monster. 

6. "I almost regret," he said, "that such a brave fellow 
will have to be put to death, after such a noble action. He 
was quite safe, citizeness (citoyenne)," he added. "We had 
given him up, but we were gaining on the old one, when lo I 



THE RECTOR OF GUIGNEN AND HIS VICAR. 



293 



he turned back and came to help him cross the brook, all the 
time covering him with his body against the fire of our guns. 




It was a remarkable and affecting scene." Yet, as soon as 
they had. got some refreshments, they hurried on with their 
prisoners to the tribunal, and from the tribunal they went the 
same day to the scaffold. 



294 THE THIRU EEADER. 



88. The Three Homes. 

1. WHERE is thy home?" I ask'd a child, 

' ' Who, in the morning air, 
Was twining flowers most sweet and wild 

In garland for her hair : 
" My home," the happy heart replied, 

And smiled in childish glee, 
"Is on the sunny mountain side, 

Where the soft winds wander free." 
Oh ! blessings fall on artless youth, 

And all its rosy hours, 
When every word is joy and truth, 

And treasures live in flowers ! 

2. " Where is thy home?" I ask'd of one 

Who bent with flushing face. 
To hear a warrior's tender tone 

In the wild wood's secret place. 
She spoke not, but her varying cheek 

The tale might well impart ; 
The home of her young spirit m^ek 

Was in a kindred heart. 
Ah ! souls that well might soar above, 

To earth will fondly cling. 
And build their hopes on human love. 

That light and fragile thing I 

3. "Where is thy home, thou lonely man?" 

I ask'd a pilgrim gray, 
Who came with furrow'd brow, and wan, 

Slow musing on his way : 
He paused, and with a solemn mein 

Upturn'd his holy eyes — 
" The land I seek thou ne'er hast seen, 

My home is in the skies ! " 



ST. PETER DELIVEEED OUT OF PRISON. 

Oh I bless'd— thrice bless'd, the heart must be 
To whom such thoughts are given, 

That walks from worldly fetters free — 
Its only home in heaven. 



295 




89. St. Peter delivered out of Prison. 



THE favorable account which St. Peter gave of his excur- 
sion to Csesarea, very soon silenced the objections of 
those who had been ready to find fault ; the faithful were 
happy to see the Gentiles thus called to partake with them in 
the grace of eternal life, and exceedingly rejoiced when they 
were likewise informed of the great numbers who had embraced 
the faith at Antioch. 

2. Barnabas, a good man, as the Scriptures witness, full of 
faith and the Holy Ghost, was sent thither to promote the 
work which the grace of God had so happily begun. Upon 



296 THE THIRD READER. 

his arrival he could not but rejoice at the pleasing prospect of 
religion : an extensive field was opened to his zeal! the harvest 
of souls was very great, the workmen few. He encouraged 
them to persevere in the happy course they had undertaken, 
and went to Tarsus in quest of Saul. 

3. He found him and brought him back to Antioch, where 
they employed themselves for a whole year in the service of 
the Lord ; they preached, they instructed, they labored with 
unwearied zeal, and had the consolation to see their labors 
crowned with success. The proselytes they made were very 
numerous, and each one vied with his neighbor in the study of 
good works : then and there it was, that the followers of Christ's 
doctrine were first distinguished by the name of Christians. 

4. About the same time there came prophets thither from 
Jerusalem, and among them one called Agabus, who foretold 
a great famine. The Christians were alarmed at the prophecy, 
and began to provide against the time of distress, which hap- 
pened under Claudius. They collected considerable sums, 
which they put into the hands of Saul and Barnabas for the 
relief of their brethren dwelling in Judea. 

5. The church of Jerusalem was at that time sorely aggrieved 
by a persecution, which Herod, at the instigation of the Jews, 
had commenced against the faithful ; the wicked king had al- 
ready slain St. James, the brother of St. John, and was then 
meditating the death of St. Peter. Having caused him to 
be apprehended during the Easter time, he kept him in prison 
under a strong guard, till the holydays were over, when he 
intended to bring him forth to the people. 

6. The faithful were struck with dismay at this disastrous 
event, rightly judging that the welfare of the flock was closely 
connected with that of the pastor, and therefore day and 
night did they send up their most fervent prayers to heaven 
for his deliverance. The Almighty graciously heard their 
petition, and delivered his Apostle on the very night that 
preceded his intended execution. 

1. Bound with two chains, St. Peter lay asleep between two 
soldiers in the prison, perfectly resigned within himself either 
to life or death, when the angel of the Lord came with great 



ST. PETER DELIVERED OUT OF PRISONsr 297 

brightness to the place, and striking him on the side, said, "Arise 
quickly." That moment the chains fell off from the Apostle's 
hands ; he speedily arose, put on his sandals, threw his garment 
round him, and followed the angel through the first and second 
ward, till they came to the iron gate which led to the city> 

8. At their approach the gate of itself flew open, and they 
went on to the end of the street, where the angel left him. 
The saint then came to himself, for hitherto he seemed to have 
been in a dream, and said, "Now I know that the Lord hath 
sent his angel, and delivered me from the hand of Herod, and 
from all the expectations of the Jews." Musing on the event 
he came to the house of Mary, the mother of Mark, and 
knocked at the gate. 

9. Many of the faithful were there met to pray : a girl called 
Rhode hearing some one knock, went to hearken at the door, 
and immediately knew it to be Peter's voice ; instead of letting 
him in, she ran back in a transport of joy to acquaint the com- 
pany that Peter was at the gate. They told her she had lost 
her senses ; but she positively assured them that so it was : 
still they would not believe her, and said it was his angel she 
had heard. 

10. Peter in the mean while continued knocking : they then 
went to the door, and on opening it saw him, and were aston- 
ished. He beckoned to them with his hand not to say a word, 
silently entered into the house, and gave them an account of 
what God had done for him. When he had finished his 
narration, he desired th^m to repeat it to James and the rest 
of the brethren, and hastened immediately out of the city, as 
privately as he could. 

11 The wonderful release of St. Peter out of prison has 
been thought to be of such importance to the Church, that she 
has instituted a day of thanksgivmg to God on that account. 
She then experienced, as she has often experienced since, that 
God is the sovereign disposer of all things here below ; that 
he sets what bounds he pleases to the power of tyrants ; that 
he opens or shuts prisons at his nod, and makes even the 
passions of men subservient to his will, in the execution of his 
unchangeable decrees. 

18* 



298 



THE THIED BEADEB. 



^/»S 




90. The Hebmit. 

1. miTRN, gentle Hermit of the dale, 
-L And guide my lonely way 

To where yon taper cheers the vale 
With hospitable ray. 

2. "For here, forlorn and lost, I tread 

With fainting steps and slow — 
Where wilds, immeasurably spread, 
Seem lengthening as I go." 

3. " Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, 

" To tempt the dangerous gloom ; 
For yonder faithless phantom flies 
To lure thee to thy doom. 

4. " Here, to the houseless child of want 

My door is open still ; 
And though my portion is but scant, 
I give it with good will. 



POPE LEO THE GREAT AND ATTILA. 299 

5. ''Then turn to-night, and freely share 

Whate'er my cell bestows — 
My rushy couch and frugal fare, 
My blessing and repose. 

6. "!N"o flocks that range the valley free 

To slaughter I condemn — 
Taught by that power that pities me, 
I learn to pity them ; 

7. "But, from the mountain's grassy side 

A guiltless feast I bring — 
A scrip with herbs and fruits suppUed, 
And water from the spring. 

8. "Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; 

All earth-born cares are wrong : 
Man wants but little here below, 
Nor wants that little long." 



91. Pope Leo the Great and Attila. 

IN the year 450, Attila began his expedition against the 
Western Empire. With an immense army, he set off from 
Hungary, directing his course through Germany, towards the 
Lower Rhine. Large swarms of adventurers joined him upon 
the march, and swelled his whole force to half a million of 
hardy combatants. Devastation, plunder, cruelty, and blood- 
shed, with every kind of outrage that can be dreaded from 
armed and lawless savages, accompanied the march of Attila. 
He bore down all before him : Metz, Triers, Tongres, Rheims, 
Cambrai, and all the towns from the banks of the Rhine to 
the very centre of Gaul, were plundered, burned, or laid in 
ruins. 

2. The former invaders of Gaul, the Goths, Burgundians, 
Franks, and Alains, then saw themselves in danger of losing 
their new possessions, and that to preserve their existence it 



300 THE THIRB READER. 

was necessary to unite their forces against the common ene- 
my. They joined the Roman standard under the command 
of ^tius. 

3. In the plains of Champagne, near Chalons, the two 
armies met. Fierce, obstinate, and bloody was the conflict. 
No less than a hundred and sixty-two thousand Huns are 
said to have fallen in that memorable battle, fought in the 
year 451, This defeat forced Attila to quit Gaul, and to lead 
back his broken troops into Hungary. 

4. In the following spring, Attila overran Italy. Meeting 
with no resistance, he ravaged the country at discretion, re- 
duced several of the fairest towns to heaps of stones and 
ashes ; and, to finish the work of desolation by one decisive 
stroke, marched against Rome. Rome was not in a state to 
resist. Submissive offers and negotiation were the only weap- 
ons she had to ward off the blow. In the chair of St. Peter 
was seated the holy and eloquent Leo, the successor of Sixtus 
III., who had succeeded Celestine. 

5. The venerable Pontiff, moved at the danger that threat- 
ened the capital of the empire, generously consented to put 
himself into the power of a lavage Tartar, and to expose his 
life for the public safety. Without arms, and without a 
guard, relying solely on the protection of God, who guides 
the hearts of kings, he went to treat with the sanguinary 
monarch, who was styled the scourge of God and the terror 
of mankind. 

6. Contrary to expectation, Attila received him with honor, 
listened with attention to his pathetic and eloquent harangue, 
and for once suffered the natural ferocity of his temper to be 
softened into reason. He promised peace to the Romans^ 
drew off his troops, and evacuated Italy. 

t. Not long after his return to the royal village which he 
had chosen for his residence in Hungary, upon the fertile 
banks of the Danube, he burst an artery in his sleep, and was 
suffocated in his own blood. The quarrels that divided his 
sons and the followers of his standard, dissolved the vast, 
unwieldy empire of the Huns, which had extended from the 
Volga to the Rhine. 



CHILDHOOD OF CHRIST. 



301 




92. Childhood of Cheist. 

¥HEN Herod was dead, Joseph brought back that holy- 
family to Nazareth, in Judea. It was there that Jesus 
lived up to the commencement of his public life. "The child," 
says the Gospel, "grew, and waxed strong, full of wisdom: 
and the grace of God was in him." 

2. Is he not adorable, that child Jesus, who, filled with 
wisdom as a God, but subjecting himself to the condition of 
humanity, gradually develops himself, and hidden in Nazareth 
with his mother, grows also in wisdom and in grace, according 
as he grows in age, awaiting the time when, as a full-grown 
man, he may manifest to the world the treasures of knowledge 
and wisdom which are in him I 

3. And you, children, like the divine infant Jesus, do you 
grow and strengthen, but grow in wisdom, that the grace of 
God may be with you, childhood ! charming age ! fairest 
of all ages ! age of innocence ! But do you know, children, 
what innocence is ? Listen : an innocent child is a little an^el 



302 THE THIRD BEADER. 

on earth. Look ia that spotless mirror : how well your image 
is reflected I Thus the heart of an innocent child reflects the 
image of God. 

4. Behold that pure and limpid stream where the heavens 
are mirrored, and the twinkling stars ! Thus is God mirrored 
in the heart of a pure and innocent child. Behold the dazzUng 
whiteness of the lily, and mark what a sweet, fresh perfume 
exhales from its graceful cup ! So is innocence the perfume 
of the soul, which embalms earth and heaven. Behold the 
snow that whitens the fields, and covers them in the dreary 
days of winter with a mantle of surpassing beauty ! Thus 
innocence is the beautiful covering of the soul. 

5. Oh unhappy day, fatal day, when a child first loses its 
innocence, — loses it forever ? Oh, how his soul is disfigured ! 
Who could recognize it ? The foul mirror no longer reflects 
your image ; the troubled stream gives back no longer the 
azure of the sky ; the withered lily hangs its faded head, with- 
out beauty or sweetness ; the white snow is become filthy mud. 
A pure child is, as we said, an angel ; but, alas ! if his wings 
are once defiled with earthly mire, can the angel still fly up to 
heaven ? 

6. It is to the httle infant Jesus, children, that you must 
recommend your innocence, praying him, at the same time, to 
give you a portion of his wisdom. His modesty made him 
conceal his treasures ; but he one day manifested them, and 
then even the wise themselves were mute with astonishment. 



93. The Butterfly's Ball, and the Grasshopper's 
Feast. 

1. riOME take up your hats, and away let us haste 
^ To thfr Butterfly's ball and the Grasshopper's feast : 
The trumpeter Gad-fly has summon'd the crew, 
And the revels are now only waiting for you. 



THE BUTTERFLY AND GEASSHOPPER. 803 

2. On the smooth shaven grass, by the side of a wood, 
Beneath a broad oak, which for ages had stood, 
See the children of earth, and the tenants of air, 
To an evening's amusement together repair. 

3. And there came the Beetle, so blind and so black, 
Who carried the Emmet, his friend, on his back ; 
And there came the Gnat and the Dragon-fly too, 
And all their relations, green, orange, and blue ; 

4. And there came the Moth, with her plumage of down, 
And the Hornet, with jacket of yellow and brown. 
Who with him the Wasp, his companion, did bring. 
But they promised, that evening, to lay by theu* sting ; 

5. Then the sly little Dormouse peep'd out of his hole, 
And led to the feast, his blind cousin the Mole ; 

And the Snail, with her horns peeping out of her shell, 
Came, fatigued-ivith the distance, the length of an ell ; 

6. A mushroom the table, and on it was spread, 

A water-dock leaf, which their table-cloth made, 
The viands were various, to each of their taste, 
And the Bee brought the honey to sweeten the feast ; 

7. With steps more majestic the Snail did advance, 
And he promised the gazers a minuet to dance ; 

But they all laugh'd so loud that he drew in his head, 
And went, in his own Uttle chamber to bed ; 

8. Then, as evening gave way to the shadows of night. 
Their watchman, the Glow-worm, came out with his light. 
So home let us hasten, while yet we can see ; 

For no watchman is waiting for you or for me ! 



3(M 



THE THIED BEADEB. 




94. The Ascension. 



OUR blessed Lord remained forty days upon earth after his 
resurrection, appearing sometimes to all his Apostles at 
once, and sometimes only to some, that he might thereby fully 
convince them of his being risen, and wean them by degrees 
from his corporeal presence. During that time, he instructed 
them in the nature and the use of those sphitual powers 
which he had imparted to them for the good of mankind. 
What those instructions were in particular, the evangelists do 
not mention. St. Luke in general terms says, that he spoke to 
them of the kingdom of God, which, according to St. Gregory, 
is his Church upon earth. 

2. St. Matthew and St. Mark both finish their Gospel his- 
tory with these remarkable words of our blessed Saviour to 
his Apostles, saying, "To me is given all power in heaven and 
on earth ; go ye, therefore, teach all nations, baptizing them 



THE ASCENSION. 305 

in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy- 
Ghost. He who shall believe and be baptized, shall be saved ; 
but he who shall not believe, shall be condemned. Teach 
them, therefore, to observe every thing that I have com- 
manded you ; for, behold, I am always with you, even to the 
end of the world." 

3. Jesus Christ had now finished the work for which he 
came down from heaven and dwelt among us. He had en- 
lightened the world by his doctrine, and redeemed it by his 
death ; by his miracles he had confirmed the truth of his re- 
vealed religion ; he had established his Church, which he com- 
mands all to hear ; he had promised to assist his Church with 
the Spirit of Truth to the end of ages ; he had appointed his 
vicar as a universal pastor, to preside over the Church in his 
name, and to feed his flock, both sheep and lambs, in his 
absence : nothing more remained than to take possession of 
that seat of bliss, which he had merited for his own sacred 
humanity and us. 

4. Therefore, on the fortieth day after his resurrection from 
the dead, he led his disciples forth to the Mountain of Olives, 
near "Jerusalem ; he there gave them his last blessing and 
raised himself from the earth towards heaven. They fixed 
their eyes upon him, as he ascended through the air, till an 
intervening cloud received him out of their sight. By his own 
divine power he ascended into heaven, where he sits at the 
right hand of the Father ; being, as he has ever been and shall 
ever be, the same consubstantial and co-eternal God with him 
and the Holy Ghost in one and the same divine nature. The 
Apostles kept their eyes still fixed on heaven, when two young 
men in white apparal came and asked them why they stood 
thus gazing at the heavens : the Jesus whom you have seen 
taken from you into heaven, said they, will in the same manner 
come again from thence to judge the living and the dead. 

5. Trivial is the pomp of this vain world to a devout and 
fervent Christian, when he contemplates the glory of Jesus 
Christ, and considers the never-ending happiness of the citizens 
of heaven. Heaven is the object on which we ought to turn 
Qur eyes ; thither ought our hearts and wishes to aspire* 



306 THE THIRD EEADEE. 

We never should forget, that the country to which we belong, 
that the bread which nourishes our souls, that the grace 
which supports our virtues, that the happiness which we hope 
to partake of, and the Head of which we are members, is in 
heaven. 

6. The spiritual treasures which we here enjoy, and the 
temporal advantages which we receive from creatures, are 
appointed us by Almighty God, as helps towards our last 
end. It was to open us an entrance into heaven that Christ 
shed his blood ; it was to draw our hearts thither that he 
ascended before the last day. The heavenly princes were 
commanded to lift up their eternal gates, and the King of 
glory, the Lord of powers, entered into his kingdom, which 
he had acquired by his sufferings and death. 



95. The Traveller. 

1. T?'EN now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, 
-L^ I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; 
And placed on high, above the storm's career. 
Look downward where a hundred realms appear — 

• Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, 
The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. 

2. When thus creation's charms around combine. 
Amidst the store should thankless pride repine ? 
Say, should the philosophic mind disdain 

That good which makes each humbler bosom vain ? 

3. Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, 
These little things are great to little man ; 
And wiser he whose sympathetic mind* 
Exults in all the good of all mankind. 

4. Ye glittering towns with wealth and splendor crown'd ,' 
Ye fields where summer spreads profusion round • 

Ye lakes whose vessels catch the busy gale ; 
Ye bending swains that dress the flowery vale ; 



THE MOORISH WARS IN SPAIN. 



307 



For me your tributary stores combine ; 
Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine ! 




6. As some lone miser, visiting his store. 

Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er ; 

Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill. 

Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still : 

Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, 

Pleased with each good that Heaven to man supplies, 

Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, 

To see the hoard of human bliss so small ; 

And oft I wish, amidst the scene, to find 

Some spot to real happiness consign'd, ^ 

Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest, 

May gather bliss, to see my fellows blest. 



96. The Moorish Wars w Spain. 

THE history of Europe presents no pages of greater interest 
than those which record the gallant struggle made by the 
Spanish nation to throw off the galling yoke of the infi4el 



308 



THE THIRD EEADER. 



Moors from Africa, wlio had overrun their fair country and 
reduced the Christian inhabitants of many of its provinces to 
a state of abject slavery. 

2. They had possession of the entire province of Granada, 
one of the fairest and most fertile portions of Spain, and in 
its ancient capital they had established their seat of empire. 




The palace of the Moorish kings of Granada, called the Alham- 
bra, is still to be seen in a ruined state in the neighborhood of 
that city, and appears to have been one of the most magnifi- 
cent buildings ever erected for a royal dwelling, 

3. But at length the Christian princes of Spain succeeded 
in conquering those rich and powerful Moors, whose cruelty 
can hardly be told in words. The honor of that great triumph 
was reserved for TCing; Eerdinand and Queen Isabella his wife, 



THE KONKS OF OLD. 309 

and when they had succeeded in wresting Granada from the 
infidels, they re-established the true faith, and restored to their 
rightful owners the churches, so long desecrated by Moham- 
medan worship. 

4. There was then in Spain an illustrious nobleman named 
Alonzo d'Aguilar, distinguished as much for his eminent vir- 
tues and great valor as for his high rank. He it was whom 
the queen intrusted with the final overthrow of the Moors and 
their expulsion from Spain. Thousands immediately flocked 
to his standard, and the greatest enthusiasm prevailed. 

5. The Archbishop of Granada blessed the banners of the 
Christian army in his cathedral, after offering up the holy 
sacrifice of the mass for the success of this new crusade. Fer- 
dinand was in another portion of their dominions at the time, 
but the queen and all her court were present. The queen her- 
self placed the banner in Alonzo's hand, and charged him to 
defend it with his life. The noble and pious knight promised 
to do so, and he kept his word. 



97. The Monks of Old. 

1. T EXYY them, those monks of old, 

J- Their books they read, and their beads they told ; 
To human softness dead and cold. 

And all Hfe's vanity. 

2. They dwelt like shadows on the earth, 
Free from the penalties of birth, 
Nor let one feeling venture forth, 

But charity. 

3. I envy them ; their cloister'd hearts 
Knew not the bitter pang that parts 
Beings that all affection's arts 

Had liuk'd in unity. 



310 THE THIED READER. 

4. The tomb to them was not a place 
To drown the best-loved of their race, 
And blot out each sweet memory's trace 

In dull obscurity. 

6. To them it was the calmest bed 

That rests the aching human head : 
They look'd with envy on the dead, 

And not with agony. 

6. No bonds they felt, no ties they broke, 
No music of the heart they woke, 
When one brief moment it had spoke, 

To lose it suddenly. 

T. Peaceful they lived, — peaceful they died ; 
And those that did their fate abide 
Saw Brothers wither by their side 

In all tranquillity. 

8. They loved not, dream'd not, — for their sphere 
Held not joy's visions ; but the tear 

Of broken hope, of anxious fear, 

Was not their misery. 

9. I envy them, those monks of old, 
And when their statues I behold. 
Carved in the marble, calm and cold. 

How true an efi&gy I 

10. I wish my heart as calm and still 

To beams that fleet, and blasts that chill, 
And pangs that pay joy's spendthrift ill 

With bitter usury. 



THE SACBED PICTUEES. 



311 




98. The Sacred Pictures. 



A VALIANT knigbt, named Hildebrand, had been deeply 
injured and offended by Bruno, another knight. Anger 
burned in his heart ; and he could hardly await the day to 
take bloody revenge on his enemy. He passed a sleepless 
night ; and at dawn of day he girded on his sword, and sallied 
forth at once to meet his enemy. But as it was very early, he 
entered a chapel by the way-side, and sat down and looked at 
the sacred pictures which were suspended on the walls, lit up 
by the rays of the morning sun. 

2. There were three pictures. Tlie first represented our 
Saviour in the pirrple robe of scorn, before Pilate and Herod, 
and bore the inscription: "When he was reviled, he reviled 
not again." The second picture showed the scourging of our 
Lord, and under it was written : " He threatened not when 
he suffered." And the third was the crucifixion, with these 
words : " Father, forgive them." 

3. When the knight had seen these words, he knelt down 
and prayed. 



312 THE THIRD READER. 

Now, when he left the chapel, he met servants coming from 
Bruno, who said: ''We seek you. Our lord demands to 
speak with you ; he is dangerously ill." And he went with 
them. 

When Hildebrand entered the hall where the knight lay, 
Bruno said : " Forgive me my injustice. Alas, I have injured 
thee deeply ! " 

4. Then the other said kindly : ''My brother, I have noth- 
ing to forgive thee." And they grasped each other's hand, 
embraced and comforted each other, and parted in sincere 
amity. 

Then the light of evening was more lovely to the returning 
knight than the light of the morning had been. 



99. Truth in Parentheses. . 

1. T REALLY take it very kin^ 
-L This visit, Mrs. Skinner I 

I have not seen you such an age — 
(The wretch has come to dinner !) 

2. "Your daughters, too, what loves of girls — 

What heads for painters' easels ! 
Come here and kiss the infant, dears, — 
(And give it, perhaps, the measles !) 

3. "Your charming boys I see are home 

From Reverend Mr. Russel's ; 
'Twas very kind to bring them both, — 
(What boots for my new brussels !) 

4. "What 1 little Clara left at home ? 

Well now I call that shabby : 
I should have loved to kiss her so, — 
(A flabby, dabby babby !) 

5. " And Mr. S., I hope he's well, 

Ah ! though ht lives- so handy, 



JAPANESE MARTYES. 313 

He never now drops in to sup, — 
(The better for our brandy !) 

6. " Come, take a seat — I long to hear 
About Matilda's marriage ; 
You're come of course to spend the day !-— 
(Thank Heaven, I hear the carriage !) 

T. What ! must you go? next time I hope 
You'll give me longer measure ; 
Nay — I shall see you down the stairs — 
(With most uncommon pleasure 1) 

8. " Good-by ! good-by ! remember all, 
Next time you'll take your dinners ! 
(Now, David, mind I'm not at home 
In future to the Skinners I) 



100. Japanese Martyrs. 

THE martyrdom of Don Simon, a Japanese nobleman and 
valiant soldier, was full of a noble interest ; he was con- 
demned to be beheaded : when the tidings were brought him in 
the evening, he put on his best robes, as if he had been going 
to a banquet ; he took leave of his mother, his wife, and family; 
they wept bitterly, but Agnes would not be comforted. This 
beautiful and great soul fell presently on her knees, praying 
him to cut off her hair, for fear, she added, "that if I chance 
to survive you, the world may think I have a mind to marry 
again." 

2. He told her that after his death she was free to take 
her choice. " Oh, my lord," replied Agnes, " I vow, in the 
presence of God, I never will have any spouse but you." He 
then desired his three cousins to be called in. "Am I not a 
happy man," he said, "to die a martyr for Jesus Christ? what 
can I do to be grateful for so singular a favor?" " Pray for 



3M 



THE THIED EEADEE. 



US, we beseech jou," said one of them, "when jon come to 
heaven, that we may partake with jou in jom' glory." "Pre- 
pare to meet me," he rephed, "for it will not be long before 
you follow." 




8. Having foretold them what soon came to pass, they 
all fell on their knees, the mother, the wife, and the relatives 
reciting aloud the Confiteor ; this done, he entertained himself 
a while interiorly with God : then desiring the picture of our 
Saviour to be brought, they walked down into the hall where 
he was to suffer, each bearing a crucifix and a Hghted torch 
in their hands. 

4. Many now gathering around him, gave way to their 
sorrow. "Weep not for me," said the martyr, "for this is the 
happiest moment of my whole life ; " then kneeling down, his 
head was struck off at one blow, in the thirty-fifth year of his 



Agnes looked at the scene, pale and immovable ; she then 
knelt, and grazed on the face for some time, and kissed it, and 



JAPANESE MARTYES. 315 

bathed it with her tears. " Oh I my husband, who had the 
honor of dying for Him who first died for thee — oh 1 glorious 
martyr, now that thou reignest with God in heaven, be mind- 
ful of thy poor desolate wife, and call her to thyself." Her 
words were like a prediction. 

5. An intimate friend of Simon, of the name of Don John, 
a man of rank, was also beheaded ; leaving his widow Magda- 
lene, and his little son Lewis, a boy about seven or eight years 
of age. In the course of a few days they were all called upon 
to follow the dead. Four crosses were erected at the place 
of execution, to which they were borne in palanquins. The 
first they crucified was the mother of Don Simon, a person of 
heroic resolution ; the next was the Lady Magdalene. 

6. Her own torment was nothing to what she endured from 
that of the little Lewis, whom they executed in her sight. 
The child, seeing them tie his mother, went of his own accord 
to the executioners, praying them to fasten him to his cross : 
"What," said they, "are not you afraid to die?" " ]N"o," 
replied the child, "I fear it not ; I will die with my mother." 
Then the executioners took and tied him to his cross, that 
stood right over-against that of Magdalene ; but drawing the 
cords too tight, he gave a shriek. Being raised aloft in the 
air, he fixed his eyes on his mother, and she hers on him. 
"Son," said she, "we are going to heaven ; take courage : say 
Jesus, Mary." 

1. The child pronounced them, and the mother repeated ; 
and these, their last words, were spoken with so much solem- 
nity and sweetness, that all wept around. After they had 
hung in this manner for some time, one of the executioners 
struck at him, but the lance slipping on one side, he missed 
his blow. However, if he spared the child, it is certain he 
pierced the mother to the heart. Fearing that he might be 
daunted by such a stroke, she called to him, "Lewis, take 
courage ; say, Jesus, Mary." 

8. The child seemed not in the least dismayed, and neither 
gave a shriek nor shed a tear, but waited patiently till the 
executioner, repeating his blow, pierced him through. The 
Japonian crosses have a seat in the middle, for the sufferer to 



816 THE THIKD BEADEE. / 

sit on ; instead of nailing the body, they bind the hands and 
feet with cords, and place an iron ring about the neck ; that 
done, the cross is raised aloft in the air, and after a few min- 
utes, th^ executioners, with sharp lances fit for the purpose, 
strike right at the heart through the left side. By this means, 
the sufferer dies almost in an instant in a deluge of his own 
blood. 

There was now only remaining the ardent and beautiful 
Agnes, whom they reserved to the last ; she knelt on the 
bank, and, clasping her hands on her breast, blessed God 
aloud for permitting her to die on the wood of the cross, 
which himself had sanctified by his precious death. 

9. She then made a sign for the officers to tie her : but not 
a man approached her, all were so overwhelmed with grief. 
She called to them again, and still they stood immovable like 
statues : she then extended herself in the best manner she 
could on the cross. Some idolaters that were present, between 
the hopes of a reward and the menaces of the officers, stepped 
up and bound her fast, and then raised her aloft in the air. 

10. The spectators, seeing a person of her quality, so deli- 
cate and tender, ready to suffer for no other crime but that 
of being true and faithful to her God, could not keep from 
tears. Some wept most bitterly ; others again covered their 
faces, and were not able to look up at such a spectacle, which 
was ready to tear their hearts to pieces. 

11. In the mean while she fixed her eyes on heaven, and 
prayed without intermission, in expectation of the fatal blow ; 
but not one offered to do her this favor, insomuch that the 
same persons that bound her were forced to take up the exe- 
cutioners' lances, and do the office for them ; but being quite 
inexperienced, they gave her blow upon blow before she was 
dead. 

12. The lady all the while fixed her eyes on the picture of 
Christ, upon which her husband had gazed so fondly before 
his death, and which she held in her hand. Many Christians 
forced their way through the crowd, and without regard to 
the soldiers' threats, dipped their handkerchiefs in the blood, 
and cut off small pieces of the robes. 



PAIN IN A PLEASURE-BOAT. 317 




101. Pain in a Pleasuee-Boat. 

Boatman. 

Shove off there ! — ship the rudder, Bill — cast off ! she's under 
way ! 

Mrs. F. 
She's under what ? — I hope she's not I good gracious, what a 
spray I 

Boatman. 
Run out the jib, and rig the boom I keep clear of those two 
brigs ! 

Mrs. p. 
I hope they don't intend some jolie by running of their rigs ! 

Boatman. 
Bill, shift them bags of ballast aft— she's rather out of trim ! 

Mrs. F. 

Great bags of stones I they're pretty things to help a boat to 
swim. 

Boatman. 
The wind is fresh — if she don't scud, it's not the breeze's 
fault I 

Mrs. F. 
Wind fresh, indeed, I never felt the air so full of salt I 



318 THE THIRD READER. 

Boatman. 
That schooner, Bill, harn't left the roads, with oranges and 
nuts 1 

Mrs. F. 
If seas have roads, they're very rough — I never felt such ruts I 

Boatman. 
It's neap, ye see, she's heavy lade, and couldn't pass the bar. 

Mrs. F. 
The bar I what, roads with turnpikes too ? I wonder where 
they are I 

Boatman. 
Ho ! brig ahoy I hard up ! hard up I that lubber cannot 
steer 1 

Mrs. F. 
Yes, yes, — hard up upon a rock I I know some danger's 

near I 
Gracious, there's a wave 1 its coming in ! and roaring like a 
bull I 

Boatman. 
Nothing, ma'am, but a little slop ! go large, Bill ! keep her 
full! 

Mrs. F. 
What, keep her full ' what daring work ! when full she must 
go down ! 

Boatman, 
Why, Bill, it lulls ! ease off a bit — it's coming off the town ! 
Steady your hehn ! we'll clear the Pint I lay right for yonder 
pink ! 

Mrs.F. 
Be steady — well, I hope they can ! but they've got a pint of 
drink ! 

Boatman. 
Bill, give that sheet another haul — she'll fetch it up this 
reach 

Mrs. F. 
I'm getting rather pale, I know, and they see it by that 

speech ! 
I wonder what it is, now, but — I never felt so queer I 



PAIN IN A PLEASURE-BOAT. 319 

Boatman. 
Bill, mind your luff — why Bill, I say, she's yawing — keep her 
near I 

Mrs. F. 
Keep near ! we're going further off ; the land's behind our 

backs. 

Boatman. 
Be easy, ma'am, it's all correct, that's only cause we tacks ; 
We shall have to beat about a bit, — Bill, keep her out to sea, 

Mrs. F. 
Beat who about ? keep who at sea ? — ^how black they look at 
me ! 

Boatman. 
It's veering round — I knew it would ! off with her head ! 
stand by I 

Mrs. F. 
Off with her head I whose ? where ? what with ? — an axe I 
seem to spy. 

Boatman. 
Sh-e cannot keep her own you see ; we shall have to pull her 
inl 

Mrs. F. 
They'll drown me, and take all I have I my life's not worth a 
pin ! 

Boatman. 
Look out you know, be ready. Bill — just when she takes the 
sand ! 

Mrs. F. 
The sand — Lord ! to stop my mouth 1 how every thing is 
plann'd ! 

Boatman. 
The handspike, Bill — quick, bear a hand ! now, ma'am, just 
step a shore. 

Mrs. F. 
What ! ain't I going to be kill'd — and welter'd in my gore ? 
Well, Heaven be praised ! but I'll not go a sailing any more. 



320 THE THIBD BEADEK. 



102. Flowers for the Altar ; or, Play and Earnest. 

dram;atis pekson^. 
Helen, ten years old. Agnes, seven years old. 

Oswald, nine years old. Father Dominic. 

The Gardener, Miller, &c. 

Scene I. 

A mill-stream, with a weir, down which the water rushes towards the mill. 
Agnes crosses a little bridge, listens, and then searches for a while among 
the sedges on the bank. At length she utters an exclamation of joy, and 
at the same moment a beautiful bantam hen rushes out, clucking. 

Agneii. Five eggs, and all 1117 own ! One each, for papa, 
mamma, Helen, Oswald, and myself ! Yet, no ; poor old 
Kitty Oliver shall have this one, and I will boil it for her in 
her little tin saucepan. sly Bantam, naughty Bruyere, to 
make your nest in such" an out-of-the-way place I Had I not 
been up so very early this morning, and heard your " Cluck, 
cluck ! " you would have cheated us all. 

Helen and Oswald call, Agnes ! Agnes ! 

Agnes. They are coming this way, and calling me. I will 
not tell them of my good fortune until breakfast-time, and 
then it will be such a pleasant surprise. They will all won- 
der so to see Bruyere's eggs, but they will never guess where 
she had hidden them. 

Enter Helen and Oswald. Agnes hastily gathers up her apron 
with the eggs. 

Oswald. Agnes, we want you. We have invented a new 
game ; and while we are planning all the rules and the meet- 
ing-places, and so on, you must gather some sedges for us. 

Agnes. What can you want with sedges ? 

Oswald. What is that to you ? You will know by and by 
when play-time comes ; so lose no time, if you please, but do 
as you are bid. 

Agnes. In a minute. Just let me run to the house and 
back. I will fly as fast as a bu'd, 

Osioald. Stuff and nonsense 1 Who can wait for you ? 
Breakfast will be ready in a quarter of an hour, and we have 
invented a new game, I tell you ; so go and gather the sedges. 



FL0WEB3 FOE THE ALTAE. 321 

Agnes [im.ploringly~\. Oswald, pray let me take what I 
have in my apron to the house. It is a secret ; you shall 
know it presently, but let me go. 

Oswald. I know what it is, by the way you are holding up 
your apron. You have been gathering some flowers for the 
altar, and wish to make a mystery of it ; but there would 
have been plenty of time before four o'clock to gather them, 
so you are a great simpleton to do it so early. 

Agnes [aside]. The eggs at breakfast will set him right in 

that particular, so I will say no more now, but run for it. 

She turns quickly, and runs as fast as she can. Oswald pursues, over- 
takes, roughly seizes her apron, and breaks all the eggs. Agnes bursts 
into tears. 

Helen. Oswald ! what have you done ? Those must be 
Bruyere's eggs, that Agnes has been hunting for for more 
than a week I 

Oswald. Then why did she not say so at once ? I suppose 
sbe was ^afraid I should want one of them for my breakfast. 
Selfish little animal ! 

Agnes sobs violently, but says nothing. 

Helen. Come, come, Oswald, do not be unfair to Agnes. 
She is a fretful little thing, with plenty of faults, as well as 
some of her neighbors, but she is not a greedy child. 
Agnes smiles, and looks gratefully at Helen. 

Oswald. In that case it is a pity certainly for us that the 
eggs are broken, and a greater pity to cry about the matter. 
IHe sings] : 

" Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, 
Humpty Dumpty had a greal fall ; 
Not all the king's horses nor all the king's men 
Could set Humpty Dumpty up again." 

Agnes [laughing]. That is very true, Oswald, dear; so we 
will think no more of our Humpty Dumpty's misfortunes. 
She runs to the brook, and begins to gather sedges. 
Osivald. By the way, those sedges are not quite the thing. 
Bring me the tallest flags and bulrushes you can find : pull 
them up close to the root. Every one must be as tall as 
yourself. 

14* 



322 THE THIRD READER. 

Agnes. They are very hard to break off ; I am afraid they 
will cut my hands. 

Oswald. Oh, that is a trifle. You must pull the harder ; 
and when you have finished, lay them in a bundle at the door 
of the summer-house, that when the recreation-hour comes, we 
may begin without loss of time. 

Agnes. I wonder what the play is to be. 

Helen. I will tell you all about it at breakfast-time. 

Oswald. And remember, that if you cry at every word that 
is spoken, and if you complain when the flags cut your hands, 
you will never make one in our game. None but the very 
bravest of the brave can learn to play with us at that. 

Exeunt Helen and Oswald ; manet Agnes, who gathers flags and bulrush- 
es, ana carries them to the summer-house. She performs her task with 
much perseverance and patience, and never looks at her bleeding hands 
until the breakfast-bell is heard. 

Agnes. There is the bell for breakfast, and I have not 
gathered my flowers, though I thought of them the last thing 
at night and the first thing in the morning. Well, well ; 
patience was my virtue for yesterday's practice, and it cer- 
tainly was not much tried : I must keep it until after break- 
fast, and then choose another for to-day. 

She dips her hands into the stream to wash them, lays her bundle at the 
door of the summer-house, and trips gayly homeward. 

Scene II. 
A flower garden. Enter the three children. 

Agnes. Oh, yes, it will be lovely I To walk in procession 
and sing the litanies with flags in our hands to look like palms 1 
Thank you again and again, dear Helen, for inventing such a 
sweet play. 

Oswald. It was not Helen who invented it ; it was I. 

Helen. For shame, Oswald ; how can you say so I 

Oswald. Well, though you may have thought of it first, I 
put your thought into shape for you. 

Agnes. Thank you, then, dear Oswald. 

Oswald [to Agnes]. Now, mind, we only allow you a 



FLOWERS FOR THE ALTAR. 323 

quarter of an hour to gather your flowers ; and the very 
moment I whistle, you must come and join us in the forum. 

Agnes. The forum ! What is that ? 

Oswald. Why the grass-plot, to be sure, stupid. Do you 
not remember that the summer-house is the temple of Jupiter, 
where the martyrs are to refuse to offer sacrifice : and that 
the weather-cock is the Roman eagle, and the grass-plot is — 

Agnes. Oh, yes, I remember all about it now ! I promise 
to join you when you whistle for me in a quarter of an hour. 

[Exeunt Helen and Oswald. 

Agnes [while putting on her garden-apron and gloves, and 
taking out her flower-shears']. Oh, happy day, happy day ! 
To dress our Lady's altar with my own roses, all my own ! 
Thirteen white ones that I counted yesterday, with ever so 
many buds, and twenty-five red ones ; and then the moss-rose 
tree, that seems to have come out on purpose for to-day, it is 
so full of buds I How beautiful they will look ! Om^ Blessed 
Lady shall have them all — every one ; I would not give one 
to anybody else to-day for the world — unless, perhaps, — [she 
pauses a moment, and then, clapping her hands together, 
adds with a happy smile and upward glance] no, not even to 
Father Dominic. This is far better than even our new play : 
this is happiness, while that is only pleasure [she looks 
thoughtful, and a cloud comes over her countenance] . 

Father Dominic is seen approaching with his breviary in his hand. 

Agnes [still musing]. There is Father Dominic. I would 
ask him, only he is saying his of&ce. 

Father Dominic crosses the path, and, without speaking, holds out his 
finger, which Agnes takes, looking up in his face, and walking beside 
him for a few minutes in silence. 

Father D. [shuts his book and smiles gently at Agnes]. 
WelJ, my child, what is it you are wishing to say to me ? 

Agnes [aside]. How is it he knows so well what I have in 
my thoughts ? [aloud] Father, is there any harm in playing 
at martyrs ? 

Father D. You must first explain to me a little what sort 
of a game that is. 

Agnes. We are to pretend that we are some of the holy 



324 THE THIRD READER. 

saints wlio suffered martyrdom under the emperor Diocletian. 
Oswald is to be the pagan tyrant ; the summer-house is to be 
the Roman temple, where Helen and myself are to refuse to 
offer sacrifice to Jupiter ; and then we are to walk to prison 
and to death singing the Litanies, with make-believe palms in 
our hands. 

Father D. And you wish to know ? — 

Agnes. Whether the sufferings of the saints is not too holy 
a subject to be turned into play ? 

Father D. Tell me, my child, which is the most holy occu- 
pation that children can have ? 

Agnes, [after thinking a while']. Father, you have told me 
that, with simplicity and obedience, every occupation is holy 
to a little child ; so that play in play-time, is as holy as study 
in school-time, or even as meditation itself. 

Father D. And what is it that sanctifies your meditation, 
your work, and your play, so as to make them equally accept- 
able to our Lord ? 

Agnes. The constant remembrance of his adorable presence. 

Fahter B. Go, my child, to your play. For my part, I 
think it the prettiest I have heard of for many a long day, and 
I should like to be a little child like you for a while to join in 
it. Though your palms are make-believe ones, your litanies 
are real, and whenever you sing them your angel guardian joins 
his voice with yours. Who knows but that our Lord, when 
he sees little children amusing themselves with good disposi- 
tions, may bestow on them in reality the spu:it of martyrdom ! 

Agnes. Do people need the spirit of martyrdom now, when 
there are no longer any heathen emperors? What is the 
spirit of martyrdom, Father ? 

Father 1). [sighing]. Yes, my dear child, we want it still, 
and shall do so to the end of the world ; but if you ask me 
what it is, I answer it is a gift from Heaven, to be obtained, 
like all other perfect gifts, by asking for it. Let this be the 
virtue you choose for to-day ; pray for it, niy dear child, and 
it will be given to you both to know and to practise it, whether 
in play-time or at any other time, should the occasion be given 
when you need it ; and this may be sooner than you think. 



FLOWERS FOR THE ALTAR. 325 

Agnes. Father, I am such a coward I I am afraid of 
every thing and everybody ; and if ever so slightly hurt, can 
scarcely refrain from tears. Oswald says he would make the 
best martyr that ever was, for he is so brave that he does not 
mind pain in the least, and never cries at all. Pray for me, 
that I may be as brave as Oswald, before I am ever required 
to suffer, lest I should deny my Lord : that would be terrible ! 
A whistle is heard. 

Agnes. Oh, listen ! they are calling me already. What 
shall I do ? what shall I do ? 

Oswald whistles again, and Helen colls, Agnes I Agnes I 
we are waiting. 

Agnes [wringing her hands]. What must I do? I prom- 
ised to go when they called, and I have not gathered my 
flowers. 

Father D. Keep your promise, my child, at all risks : bear 
a disappointment rather than break a promise. 

Agnes, But there are two promises, Father ; and one of 
them must be broken. I had promised our Blessed Lady every 
rose in my garden for this feast, and that I would say a 
Memorare iSefore they were gathered ; and now the only time 
I had has slipped by. This was my first promise, and my best j 
I cannot break it. 

They call, impatiently, Agnes ! Agnes ! 

Father D. Give me your basket, my child. Offer to our 
Lord every little good action as a flower for the altar. I will 
gather these flowers for you, and leave them in the summer- 
house ; while you go down the lawn, say the Memorare, and 
I will say it at the same time. Will that do ? 

Agnes looks gratefully at Father Dominic, kisses his hand, and walks 
quietly down the lawn, saying her little prayer with recollection. When 
it is ended, she runs towards the summer-house, clapping her hands with 
delight. 

SCENE IIL 

The three children are seen coming out of the summer-house. Oswald is 
dressed as a Roman lictor, bearing in his hand an axe tied in a bundle 
of rods. Helen and Agnes have long white veils, and each wears a 
passion-flower in her bosom. 



326 THE THIRD READER. 

Oswald [fiercely]. Come on, wretches, and suffer the pun- 
ishment which Csesar so justly awards to your crimes. Thrice 
have you impiously refused to sacrifice, and thrice shall you be 
beaten with these rods before the axe closes your miserable and 
detestable lives. In the mean time, thrice shall you be driven 
through the city and round its boundaries, that every Roman 
may behold your ignominy, and may tremble at your fate. 

He drives them before him for some time, and then stops opposite the 
smnmer-house. 

Oswald to Agnes. Maiden, your tender years inspire me 
with some compassion for your folly : only bow as you pass 
that standard, and I will intercede for you with the emperor. 

Agnes walks erect past the summer-house. 

Oswald. Wilt thou not bend ? 

Agnes. No. 

Helen [pushing her] . You do not do it properly. Make 
a speech, cannot you? Plain ''no" sounds so stupid. 

Agnes. I do not know what else to say. 

Helen. You ought to make a grand speech, to defy the 
lictor, and abuse the emperor and the gods of Rome. You 
shall hear by and by how / will do it. 

Oswald [threatening with his rod] . Once for all, wilt thou 
bow to the standard of Rome, to the royal bird of Jupiter ? 

Agnes. Never I 

Oswald. Here then will I teach thee what it is to be ob- 
stinate. [He strikes her somewhat harder than he intended.] 

The Angel guardian of Aqxes approaches and whispers to her frequently 
during this scene and the rest of the drama. The words of the Angei 
seem to Agnes thoughts, for she does not see the Angel, but she knows 
he is near, and speaks to him also in thoughts. 

Angel. Courage, Agnes. A flower for the altar ! 

0,-^wald to Helen. To thee also is mercy for the last time 
offered. Disgrace not a name held in honor throughout the 
world, that of a Roman matron ; nor afford a pretence to thy 
children to desert the holy temples, where their ancestors wor- 
shipped, and forsake the protectmg gods of their hearths and 
homes. 



FLOWERS FOR THE ALTAR. 327 

Helen. Your gods are but demons ; and had they been 
mortals, they would have been, by your own account of them, 
a disgrace to humanity. Your temples are dens of the vilest 
wickedness ; your emperor is a base tyrant, and deserves him- 
self to be torn by the beasts of the circus. I defy him and 
you, together with all the tortures you can inflict, and desire 
to be led to martyrdom. 

Agnes [aside']. Oh, how good Helen is ! how noble she 
looks ! I should never be able to say all that. 

Oswald to Helen. So thou pratest, dost thou? By the 
emperor's command, thus will I silence thee. \_He gives her 
a blow with the rod. 

Helen [angrily] . Don't, Oswald ! You hurt me. 

Oswald. Hurt you ? that is impossible. I hit Agnes much 
harder, and she only smiled. I did not hurt you, I am sure. 

Helen. You did, Oswald ; and I will not play with you if 
you do it again. 

Oswald. And I will not play with you if you call me 
Oswald ; you are breaking the rules of the game, to call me 
Oswald instead of lictor. 

They seem about to quarrel violently. 

Angel to Agnes. Make peace between them ; that will be 
a flower for the altar. 

Agnes. Dear Oswald, I think you must have hurt Helen a 
little more than you intended ; for see, there is a blue mark 
on her arm. Had we not better leave off this part of the 
game ? Suppose the lictor should suddenly be converted ; 
and then we can all be Christians going together to martyr- 
dom, carrying our palms and singing our hymns. 

Helen. With all my heart. 

Oswald. Yery well, I am ready ; and for a beginning I will 
kick down the altar of Jupiter, and throw away my fasces. 

.[Exeunt. 

Scene TV. 

The children are walking in procession, bearing their mock palms. Helen 
and Agnes have their hands bound. They sing "Ave maris Stella." 
A group of little villagers stand in the road, looking through the gate of 
the garden to listen and to watch them as they pass. 



328 THE THIED READEB. 

1st Child. Well, if that ain't beantiful ? I wonder whether 
we could play at that, or whether it could be only for gentle- 
folks. 

2d Child. Why shouldn't us ? If us can sing in the 
church, us has as good a right as they any how and any- 
where. 

Angel to Agnes. Love the poor and welcome them every- 
where. 

Agnes. Perhaps this may be a flower for the altar. 

She runs to her mother, who is sitting reading on one of the garden-seats, 
and asks permission for the village children to join their procession. 
This being granted, Agnes tells the children where to find the bundle 
of palms, and again takes her place behind Helen. They walk on, 
singing, "Virgo, singularis, inter omnes mitis," &c., &c. Kitty Oliver, 
who is weeding a flower bed, looks up when she hears their voices, and 
calls to the gardener. 

Kitty. John, John, come here and hearken. You have 
heard me tell about Miss Agnes' singing. Come and listen to 
it yourself, and you will say with me that there is not one of 
them to be compared with her. Bless her httle heart I she 
sings like an angel, as she is. 

Agnes, who hears this, blushes. 

Agnes to her Angel guardian. If it will be a flower for the 
altar to shun human praise, let me sing in my heart only, and 
do you sing for me. 

The Angel sings, and Agnes keeps silence. They walk along the bank of 
the river, singing the Litany of Loretto, when the village children arrive 
carrying their mock palms : they follow the procession, and join in the 
litany. 

Oswald, [turning sharply round]. Who is that roaring the 
Or a pro nobis, spoiling our singing ? 

1st Child, [slinking back]. 'Twasn't me, sir. 

2d Child, [pulling his forelock, and scraping a rustic 
boiv]. I humbly ax yom* pardon, sir. 

M Child [grumbling]. I don't see what harm there is, 
when missis gave us leave. 

4:th Child, [sturdily]. Mother says that the day may come 
when the quality of the gentlefolks will be glad enough to 
have the prayers of the poor. 



FLOWERS FOR THE ALTAR. 329 

Helen [vnth a patronizing air']. And your mother said very 
ri^ht, my dear ; so, since mamma has given you permission, 
you may walk in our procession ; only you must take care to 
keep at a respectful distance, and not to sing too loud. 
The village children fall back. 

Angel to Agnes. Our Lord so loved the poor, that he be- 
came one of them, and lived among them as his friends. 

Agnes. Let my littleness be of itself an humble flower for 
our Lord. I am unworthy to be the least among the poor, 
since he so loved them. 

She retires, and mingles with the village children. When the litanies 
are ended, Helen and Oswald stand still, and the rest await their 
orders. 

Helen. I am tired of walking in procession and singing, are 
not you ? What shall we do next ? 
One of the village children advances with a basket of roses in his hand. 

Child to Oswald. If you please, sir, I fomid this in the 
summer-house, where Miss Agnes sent us for our flags and 
bulrushes ; and thinking mayhap you wanted these roses to 
dress up for your procession, I made bold to bring them with 
me here. 

Oswald. Oh, that is famous ! We are now in the amphi- 
theatre, awaiting the arrival of the emperor Diocletian, who 
is anxious to witness the tortures of the Christian martyrs. 
Somebody must represent the emperor Diocletian, and none 
can act that part so well as myself ; because I am up in the 
Roman history, and understand Latin and all that. I will 
just go behind that arbutus to arrange my toga, and to throw 
away my palm ; and then you, Charlie Baker, you will do for 
a trumpeter to announce my arrival ; and all the rest, except 
Helen and Agnes, must cry, "Long live Caesar ! long live the 
immortal Diocletian ! " and must strew these roses in my path 
when I arrive. This basket comes just in the right time. 

Agnes. No, Oswald, no ! Pray do not touch those roses ; 
they were gathered from my own garden, and you know what 
for. 

Oswald. If I choose to have them, I should like to see you 
prevent me I I will make you repeut of it if you try. 



330 THE THIRD READER. 

Angel. Courage to suffer for justice' sake is a flower worthy 
of the altar. 

Agnes. Oswald, you shall not touch one of those flowers. 
They are neither yours nor mine ; they were given to our 
Blessed Lady, and she shall have them. 

Oswald [sarcastically']. Oh, ho ! Agnes turned vixen, and 
daring to dictate to me : that is capital ! It is very remark- 
able that I don't feel more frightened. Never was cooler in 
my hfe, ha, ha, ha I [He holds the basket over his head and 
laughs.] 

Angel. To bear afii'onts and mockery is a choice flower, and 
very dear to our Lord. 

Agnes [meekly']. Oswald, I forgive you from my heart; 
but pray give me those flowers. 

The poor children surround her. 

Omnes. Never mind. Miss Agnes, you shall have plenty of 
flowers for our Lady's altar ; we will all go and gather the 
very best we have, and will be back again in ten minutes. 
They run in different directions to gather flowers for Agnes. 

Oswald. There I do you hear ? you will have twice as many 
as these in ten minutes, so don't be bothering me any more, 
for I mean to have them, and have them I will. 

Angel to Agnes. Zeal for the house of our Lord is beauti- 
ful and fragrant to hun. 

Agnes. No, Oswald, no : you shall not even touch them. 
What is given to the Church is already holy, and 1 will pray 
that you may not have one of them. 

Helen. For shame, Oswald I What a coward you are to 
take advantage of a child like Agnes ! Put down the basket 
this instant, or I will go and tell mamma. 

Oswald [angrily'] . Go along with you then, and tell tales, 
and see what you will get by them. There is no use in hold- 
ing out your hands, Agnes ; they are tied fast enough. 

He runs across the bridge xjursued by Helen. When he has reached the 
other side, he throws the basket into the mill-stream, and laughs scorn- 
fully. Agnes bursts into tears. 

Angel. Pray for Oswald. 

Agnes. And do you also pray for him as I do. 



FLOWERS FOR THE ALTAR. 331 

The basket is whirled round in the eddy until it is almost within reach. 
Agnes seizes a long stick, and approaching the edge of the river tries to 
draw her prize to shore ; she touches it, and seems on the eve of gaining 
her point, but her hands being bound, she is prevented from controlling 
her own movements or those of the stick; she loses her footing, and 
falls into the river. Her Angel guardian folds her close within his wings 
as she is carried by the stream out of sight, round a sudden bend of the 
river between the bridge and the mill. 

Oswald screams : Oh, the mill I the mill ! My God ! let 
me not see it ! let me not do it I [He covers his face with 
his hands, and throws himself on the ground in agony and 
terror.] 

Helen [falling on her knees]. Mother of good counsel 
pray for us ! Refuge of sinners, pray for us ! [She turns to 
Oswald, takes hold of his arm, and speaks quietly but firm- 
ly.] Oswald, we must do what we can, and not despair of 
the goodness of Almighty God. Untie my hands. [Osuxdd 
obeys mechanically.] Now run as fast as you can to the 
mill ; take the short cut by the lane. I see Dick the miller 
leaning over his gate ; he will know whether any thing can 
be done. Go, and may God speed you, while I run for Father 
Dominic. 

Helen flies away like lightning. Oswald makes towards the lane, but 
can scarcely stagger along ; his knees tremble, and he is obliged to catch 
at the branches of the hedge to keep himself from falling. Dick, the 
miller, perceives that something is wrong, and runs to meet him as 
quickly as his old legs will carry him. 

Scene Y. 

The road from the village. Father Dominto and Helen are hurrying 
along. The clock strikes. 

Father Dominic [thinking aloud]. One o'clock ! All 
this must have happened a full hour ago ; for the cottage 
where Helen found me is a good mile and a half from the 
bridge. — [To Helen.] I would not bid you cease to hope, my 
child, for with Almighty God all things are possible ; but be 
prepared to submit in all things to his adorable will. Your 
little sister was ripe for heaven ; and if our Lord desired to 
take her to himself, we have no right to murmur if he re- 
fuses to work a miracle for our sakes merely, our selfish sake* I 



332 THE THIRD READER. 

Helen sobs heavily from time to time, and they walk on for some way 
without saying anotlier word. 

Helen. Who is that coming across the field towards the 
road ? 

Father D. It is Dick the miller ; he is hurrying towards us. 

Dick shouts: Not that way, Father ; to the house, to the 
house ! 

He takes off his broad hat, and wipes his face, which is as pale as death, 
and quickly joins them. 

Father D. To the house, did you say ? 

Dick. Yes, Father ; she is found and carried home. 

Father D. [aaide']. I dare not ask the particulars — I see 

how it is. 

Helen. Oh, tell me ; is she dead ? 

The miller looks at her sorrowfully. 

Helen. Oh, let me go on by myself : I cannot wait for you : 
I must go and comfort mamma. 

Father D. Go, my child ; and may your heavenly Mother 
help you in your task, {exit Helen.'] Now, tell me, I pray 
you, every particular. Who found her ? Was life quite extinct 
when she was taken from the mill-wheel ? 

Dick. The mill-wheel ! [he shudders.'] No, thank God, we 
are spared that trial ! Her cheek is as smooth as a lily flower, 
and as pale, and there is neither scratch nor stain on her little 
white hmbs ; and there she hes, with a smile on her face like 
an angel asleep. 

Father D. God is indeed merciful in the midst of his judg- 
ments. 

Dick. Here is how it was : when Master Oswald told me 
what had happened, away I ran at once to the mill to stop 
the machinery ; and (God forgive my want of faith !) I said, 
" Of a certainty it is too late ; nothing can hinder the course 
of a mill-stream, and we shall find her all torn and mangled 
among the wheels." No, sir, she had never reached the mill. 
Away I went up the river towards the bridge ; and there, just 
in the bend, on the side next the mill, there she lay among the 
flags and sedges. The current must have carried her within 
reach of them, for she had caught hold of them with the clutch 



FLOWEKS FOR THE ALTAR. 333 

of death ; and this it was that stopped her from being carried 
over the weir. She had so firm a hold of those flags that I 
was obliged to cut them off near the roots to disengage her • 
and to see her lying there, with her hands bound, and the long 
Isavcs in them that they tell me she had been playing at mar- 
tyrs with, and with that heavenly smile on her countenance ! 
I never should forget that sight if I were to hve a hundred 
years, and a hundred more on the top of them. 

Father JD. That sight, Dick, will be remembered to all 
eternity in heaven. It is one worthy the attention of men 
and of angels. 

Dick. Well, sir, anc' "^at was not all; for close beside her, 
among the rushes, la- -Vpt of roses that I saw you 

gathering this mormi . '^ttle garden. They 

say that her last wor " . fl^e Blessed 

Virgin. 

Father D, Aad Oswala— _ 

JDick. Oh, sir, he is very quiet ) ua^ 
out of his scDses, for he will have it that ivxi^. 
dead. I carried her home in my aims, and sent my wi: 
to prepare madam for the sorrow th'cd: was coming upon her. 
As for Master Oswald, he had taken tie basket and had gone 
on too. He walked along without ev^ so much as liftir j up 
his eyes ; but I saw him from time to tW kissing the ba^kp" 
that he held in his hand, as if he was no worthy to carry it, 
until I lost sight of him altogether. I slakened my steps, sir, 
as I came near the house — for I had not tie heart to think of 
the mother — and I was plotting in mj Iiead how I should 
behave, and what I should say, wten wao should I see but 
madam herself coming out of the gate with the servants, and 
walking without hurry or agitatioc, as collected and calm as 
when she goes up the aisle of a Sunday morning. She comes 
up to me, and takes Miss Agnes into her arms, oh, so tenderly I 
and walks straight up the steps, aad through the porcn mto 
the church, and there she laid her at the foot of the altar, and 
said the Salve Regina, in which we all joined. Master Oswald 
had been there before us, fur the basket of flowers wa? on our 
Lady's altar ; but he did not come near us. He had hidden 



334 THE THIED BEADEE. 

himself in some corner when we came in, for I heard him 
sobbing. When we left the church I followed them home. 
Madam carried Miss Agnes herself up-stairs, where every thing 
had been made ready to receive her ; and when I came away, 
the mother and the old nurse were busy chafing the body, and 
using all the means possible to restore life, if such a thing were 
possible. When I came out of the room to go and meet you, 
sir, there was Master Oswald outside the door on his knees. 
He will not stir from that spot ; but he tells everybody that 
goes by that his sister is not dead, and that she will not die, 
because then he would be a murderer. But as to that — a*s to 
any chance of that ! — I carried her home in my arms, and 
bless your heart alive, su* I ^ 

Here Dick shakes his gray head, and the tears trickle down his cheeks. 

Scene TI. 

A bedchamher. Agnes is lyin^ pale and apparently lifeless on her little 
Md. Her mother and Helbt, with the nurse, are chafing her limbs and 
applying restoratives. No ^ne speaks. 

E'ter Father Dominic. 

Father D. Sweet Ittle lamb I dear to our Lord I Your 
t:)rayer of to-day we:t straight up to heaven ; it was soon 
answered. 

He kneels besid/the bed ; the others also kneel. A pause. 
/ 
Father D. to th^ mother. Was there any thing like life ? 
Had you, have you, Any hope that life is not quite extinct ? 

Mother. I have fancied, from time to time, that there was 
a slight pulsation of the heart, but my own beats so strongly 
that I may easily be mistaken. 

Father Dominic pbces his hand on the child's heart, and bending his ear 
down listens attentively; he then takes a glass from the table, and holds 
It to her mouth. The mother watches anxiously. He gives the glass to 
the mother. 

Mother. The glass is dimmed by her breath, — she lives ! 
-taiher D. No time must now be lost in giving her the last 
sacrament of the Church. Perhaps it was for this great grace 



■SP? 



FLOWERS FOR THE ALTAR. 



335 



iliat this little spark of life was allowed to remain. You see 

.'lo. is perfectly insensible to all external things ; she is evi- 

ly unconscious— her moments may be very few. 

Mother. O Father, I ^:nil hope against hope I If our Lord 

feas granted to a m i :r's prayer this little breath of life, how 

imicb more will ht ^ i; ; v- an answer to that sacrament 

-hick ■■[eg,'!s for life i -presence of death, and to 

which be H^- nven romi: i- < shall bring health to the 

~-.ck, as\.':. forgiveness tu [She kneels beside 

ignes and whispers in hi *ld, Father Dominic 

;:i here, to give you the last si' ^^ Dhurch. If you 

have any consciousness, sp ■ ' 

Angel whispers to Agi^s -la 7.. Jc:- ' 

Scene "Vj. 

}lie same room, darkened. Helen sits watching, -,,. '■ :• :*v :. - ^ 
time to time peeps between the cu. 

Helen. She still sleeps ; and now she loo. 
igaiu. How little did I think we should ever set 
)ink bloom on her cheek, and those hands, which were ^ 

Dut a few hours since, relaxed by sleep, and meekly crv, 
ipon her bosom as usual. Oh, how delightful to sit here, i. 
•t were only to hear her breathe I even for that I could never 
be weary of thanking God. The last five hours seem only 
like so .many minutes ; and yet I have done nothing but sit 
here, and listen to the same breathing that I might have heard 
at any time for the last seven years. How little we think of 
the mercies every day bestowed upon us, just because we are 
never without them I The very reason that we should never 
be without gratitude to God 1 Let me offer up every breath 
of my life now, once for all, in grateful adoration. But see I 
she moves, she wakes ; with her eyes still closed she makes 



the sign of the 


"r^ ■,-.-, i^uu oi&rs • ■■ ■■. 


^ T thoughts to God. 


Agnes. Is 


■nere^? 




Helen. No, 


■•:/. t, it JS ■ 


:11 not see Oswald 


until you wish 


1-. ..;.:. ..'Ill EUX' . 


.;oing to tease you 


any more. 







'36 THE THIED EEADEE. 






Agnes, G-ood morning, dear Helen. live me a kiss, and 
then ask Oswald to come to me directly * but do not disturb 
mamma, for she wants rest. [E:rit Helerf. 

Enter Oswald. 

Agnes. Come hither, dear ; I want to t.peak to you. 

Oswald comes forward in tears, and buries his head in the counterpane as 
he kneels beside Agnes. Agnes puts her ; <a round hiin, and draws 
him near enough to whisper in his ear \ 

I know all about it, dear • I know what you are tliinking of 

Oswald beats his breast, but does not say a word. 

My poor Oswald ! how much you have suffered ! Would you 
do any thing I asked you now ? 

Oswald kisses her hand and sobs. 

You will. Well, tVien, promise me that, when at any, time 
you think of yesterday and of all that happened to us. you 
wiU think of it in this way : Once upon a time Almighty God, 
fn ais infinite mercy, preserved my little Agnes in a wonderful 
way, in order that she might love me and I love her, and both 
of us love him a thousand times more than ever we did before, 
or ever could have done otherwise. 

Oswald. I will. 

Agnes. And when you cannot help reproaching your,,elf, 
you will not do it more unkindly than you can help, but will 
say, "Out of this fault, with God's help, shall spr.Q^ ten vir- 
tues?" 

Oswald. I will. 

Agnes. And now, dear Oswald, give me a drink. I am 
still very weak, but shall soon be well. If Helen comes in, 
tell her it is your turn to watch. There, put your hand under 
my cheek, that I may kiss it when I awake. That is nice ; I 
can go to sleep again now. Good-night, dear. How happy 
we shall all be, now, if Almighty God gives us the grace of 
pcrseveroTice to the end I 

THE END. 

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